Hitting the Right Notes
by sneakyslytherin.severus
Summary: Hermione Granger is a successful London actress, asked to play Eliza Doolittle in a unique revival of "My Fair Lady". Her co-star, however, proves to be quite the challenge to work with...at first. Dramione AU
1. Overture

Even after eleven years of performing, Hermione still hated the curtain calls. "When the play is running, the audience doesn't see me as _me_," she would insist, usually preaching to her manager, "they see my _character_. By coming out at the end just as _ourselves_ to take bows…well, it ruins the magic! Why not just leave them with a powerful last scene or musical number, and keep the image of the characters untarnished by the mundane nature of the actors?"

"I don't know," her manager would reply dryly. "You should suggest that to the director for the next performance. For now, though, you'd better get back onstage or it'll be both of our asses on the line."

And so, no matter how much Hermione despised the fruitless and stupid gestures of curtain call – walking up, bowing, waving, bowing again, leaving, then returning on stage to bow _one last time _– she had never missed a single curtain call in her entire career. True, she could have pitched her idea to the directors, and she knew that all of them would have listened to her, but that just seemed so prima-donna-ish, and Hermione hoped that no one would ever refer to her as a prima donna.

She acted and sang because she loved it, and it just so happened that the industry paid her well. Every high note sent a buzz through her spine, the sound echoing and spinning around the old theaters; those moments when actors spoke volumes through total silence thrilled her, even if she was just watching from backstage; applause at the end of a dance made her feel like she had the energy to run the whole number again, just for fun. Despite the horrid curtain calls, temperamental co-stars, and ridiculous paparazzi that came with the job, Hermione was in love with the theater.

Hermione was being very careful about her bows tonight, taking great care to ensure that they were more like curtseys and less like masculine, typical bows. Some eccentric costume designer had decided that her dress for the last scenes should have a ridiculous plunging neckline, and Hermione was worried that if she were to bow properly she might end up falling out of the fabric's feeble confines. Cursing under her breath while still maintaining her smile, Hermione waved and bowed again.

Just as she was about to dip down for her final curtsey, a flash of colour from the audience caught her eye. A moment later, a beautiful red rose landed just in front of her feet, a single black ribbon tied around the thorny stem. Grinning from ear to ear, Hermione stooped down and picked up the gorgeous bloom. She held it to her nose and inhaled the delicate aroma, wondering how he could have found a pristine flower in the dead of December.

When she looked up from her rose, Hermione realized that the stage had mostly cleared; it was only her and the other two main actors left. Just as he did every night, the man on the left stepped forward first to thunderous applause. Hermione and the other male star held out their left arms in order to draw more attention to their waving, bowing co-star. Then, Hermione switched her arms and gestured as the man on her right stepped forward. The applause swelled, a bit louder for this man than the other, but this was always the case. _Some characters are just more appreciated than others, _Hermione thought.

When the applause died down slightly, the man on her right stepped back and gave her a wink. Hermione smiled, stepped forward, and was nearly knocked backwards by the force of the applause. It was true that she usually got a notable amount of applause, and Hermione appreciated every single moment of it – but tonight was her last night performing in this show, and it appeared that she had quite a few fans in the audience.

This appreciation was overwhelming, and quite unexpected from Hermione's perspective, but it became a bit problematic when the audience simply would not sit down or stop clapping. "It appears that you'll be missed," the man on Hermione's right said, the mask covering half of his face slightly slurring his words.

"I doubt that Justin," Hermione whispered, trying to keep waving and smiling. "You're still here to carry the show – I really didn't do much."

Justin Finch-Fletchly, known to the audience as the elusive, deadly, and tragically misunderstood Phantom of the Paris Opera House, snorted. "Yeah, Christine Daae doesn't do much in the _Phantom of the Opera_. Sometimes you're too modest, Hermione."

The blonde on Hermione's left interrupted her muffled conversation with Justin. "It doesn't seem like they're going to stop anytime soon," he whispered. "Should we just head off?"

"Shut up Cormac," Justin snapped a bit too loudly. "This is Hermione's moment, don't take it from her."

"I wasn't!" Cormac protested, still smiling at the audience despite the tone of his voice. "I just thought -"

"You two should head out," Hermione interrupted softly. "Justin, your family's probably waiting up for you, and Cormac….I'm sure you've got plans. We're running late already, you two can get a move on."

"You're okay out here?" Justin said, a bit concerned.

"I'm just fine," Hermione insisted. "Now go, otherwise Padma will have your head."

Hermione didn't have to turn around to know that Justin was grinning, and she listened as his footsteps slowly disappeared backstage. "Cormac," she whispered. "You can go too."

"What, and leave you out here all alone?"

"…you really _should _go, Cormac."

She heard her co-star sigh. "Well, shouldn't we give the audience one last spectacle?" he said, the aggressive tone in his voice making Hermione uneasy. "It _is _your last night, after all."

"They've already seen everything they've paid for," she said coolly.

Cormac laughed quietly. "Well, Raoul and Christine are supposed to be madly in love," he said slowly. "Wouldn't a last, passionate kiss shared between two lovers be a great theatrical bonus?"

Hermione's blood turned to ice in her veins, and she was sure that her smile hardened slightly. "No, I don't," she said slowly. "Have you ever heard of _Love Never Dies_, Cormac?"

"…I can't say that I have," he replied, sounding confused.

Hermione resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. _What. An. Idiot. _"It's the sequel to _Phantom_," she said shortly. "In that musical, it turns out that Raoul is a drunk and an ass and has condemned Christine to an unhappy life. If you _really _wanted to show the audience the direction that this fictional relationship goes, you'd hit me and then walk away to drown your sorrows in some bar." Silence from behind her. "I don't think you want to go there, Cormac."

More silence. Then, "No," he said shortly. "I don't. Good evening, Hermione."

"Good evening," she said lightly, turning her head slightly to smile at her angry co-star. "I hope you enjoy whatever brothel you're heading towards."

That seemed to be the last nail in the coffin, as Cormac walked off stage as quickly as his feet could carry him. Hermione smiled smugly, then returned her gaze to the audience. They obviously hadn't heard a single word of this exchange, and everyone was still cheering her on enthusiastically. Her smile switched from an ingenuous, pleasant one, to a genuine ear-to-ear grin.

She may hate curtain calls, but Hermione loved to know that she had made people happy.

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"Seven minutes of applause!" Hermione's manager exclaimed, ecstatic. "_Seven_ _glorious minutes! _That's huge, 'Mione, huge."

She laughed, closing her dressing room door and shutting out the overly noisy world outside. "It's pretty fantastic, yes…" – she walked over to her vanity and placed her rose on the table – "but honestly Remus, you're the one who convinced me to take this role. I should be the one giving _you _seven minutes of applause."

In the mirror Hermione could see Remus Lupin's eyes go a little wide, hunching his shoulders to make himself look like he was shorter, his mouse-brown, too-long hair falling into his eyes. _He never does take well to compliments_, Hermione thought.

"Nonsense," Remus insisted, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and standing back up to his full six-feet-three-inches. "It's not like _I _get out there eight times a week and hit those high notes."

Both of them laughed, Hermione pulling out her earrings and meeting Remus' eyes in the mirror. "Did you see him out there?" she asked, nodding her chin towards the rose in front of her.

A smile played across Remus' lips as his eyes flicked up and down the exquisite flower. "No, I didn't," he answered slowly. "Given the evidence, I assume that he must be out there, but I haven't seen him yet."

"Hmm," Hermione said noncommittally, her mind already elsewhere. She lowered her arms to put her earrings into the jewelry box, but as she did so her dress dropped even lower. "Oh bloody hell!" she exclaimed, throwing the earrings into the box a bit too forcefully.

Remus just raised an eyebrow, his head tilting in an almost canine manner. "It's this goddamn dress," Hermione huffed, pulling up the shoulders. "Who was the genius that decided I had to wear something with a décolletage this bloody low?"

Chuckling, Remus shrugged. "If I told you their name they'd be dead within a week," he said, his smirk indicating that he was joking. "Why would I want to wish that much harm upon the poor soul?"

"Oh God." Hermione froze, all the blood draining from her face. "This wasn't….isn't….this isn't Nymphadora's design, is it?"

Nymphadora Lupin – affectionately called Tonks by those who knew her well –was Remus' wife of five years, and the mother to his child. She was also a rather accomplished West End costume designer who had worked on pieces like _Next to Normal_, _We Will Rock You_, and _Oliver_. Hermione had only met her on a handful of occasions, but she seemed like a nice lady despite her often eccentrically dyed hair.

Hermione watched Remus' face carefully, prepared to run for the door if he answered in the affirmative. He was very…_possessive _about his younger wife, and Hermione knew that Remus was stronger and faster than he looked; he easily challenged anyone who insulted the love of his life.

To her relief, Remus' shaggy hair swayed back and forth as he shook his head. "No, this wasn't Tonks," he said, sighing. "I tried to get her interested – it wasn't an insignificant paycheck – but she was all excited about some piece at the National Theater. The designer of _that_," – he gestured to Hermione's ridiculously revealing ensemble – "is someone that Tonks particularly hates. Whoever it is, they've been married and divorced at least three times, apparently."

"Obviously one's character comes through in their designs," Hermione said, gesturing to the ridiculous cleavage. "She can't have even _seen _me," she continued to protest, flinging open her wardrobe. "I mean, I have nothing to show off even with a neckline this low!"

Remus started laughing. "You do yourself an injustice, Hermione."

She whirled around, the dress slipping a little more. "Don't patronize me, Remus Lupin," she threatened jokingly, pointing a clothes hangar at him. "I know what I have and what I don't have, and I definitely don't have _those_."

Shrugging, Remus averted his eyes as Hermione slipped out of her costume. This was a regular routine for them, this post-performance chat-and-change, but neither of them really cared about decency too much anymore. After working with each other for six years, they pretty much knew each other inside-out.

Remus knew that Hermione was terrified of becoming a 'diva', hated curtain calls, and was the kindest and most selfless human being he had ever met. She was genuinely modest, a very hard-worker, and had little-to-no time for her personal life. Most of the money she earned was sent to charities, and the relatively little that she kept for herself was put to good, practical use. She drove a Volkswagen Beetle and owned a very empty-looking flat. She sent him and Tonks and Teddy presents every Christmas, and never missed Teddy's birthday even if it meant flying in from where she was performing in New York or on tour.

Hermione knew that Remus was shy, cerebral, and incredibly intelligent. He could've gone to Oxford or Cambridge on scholarship easily, but his troubled parents and lifestyle had pushed him into drugs and gang membership. Hermione knew that he still had a wolf tattoo on his left shoulder as an unwelcome reminder of those days. When he'd gotten charged with possession at age 19, he'd gone to jail and cleaned himself up. After he was released, however, no one wanted to hire an ex-con, ex-druggie who looked tired and really needed a haircut…well, no one but Hermione. She saw the good in him that few people wanted to see, and despite her friends' protestations she had hired him. It had been one of the best decisions of her life.

At first Remus had been pretty uncomfortable around her, always on tenterhooks, afraid that one false move would get him back onto the streets. Whenever Hermione came offstage he would quickly discuss her performance, options, and plans, then slip out and let her change in peace. One night, however, after a particularly harsh critic had been in the audience and had stressed Hermione out beyond belief, she had started to change in front of him, talking about important staging decisions as she did so. Remus had sputtered and closed his eyes, terrified of offending his new boss by watching her change, but equally terrified of walking out while she was discussing such important factors of the show. Hermione, however, had continued on like she didn't care, and eventually Lupin had the courage to open his eyes.

Pretty quickly after that their relationship loosened up, both of them becoming more comfortable around each other. Talks about business turned into talks about this cool girl he'd met at the pub, then about how he should propose to Tonks, then into conversations about cold feet and age differences, then into baby formulae and diapers. Hermione was brilliant at giving advice and making Lupin feel at ease, and more than once Remus wished that he could provide the same services to her. Unfortunately, however, it seemed that Hermione didn't have a social life at all, let alone one that required her to ask for advice.

"So, you look like you're bursting to say something," Hermione commented, her words muffled by an old Manchester United sweatshirt that she was slipping over her head.

"How could you tell?" Remus asked, smiling.

Hermione shrugged as she pulled on a pair of battered, well-loved jeans. "You're fiddling with your hair more than normal." Remus' hand immediately froze, mid-way across his forehead. Hermione grinned. "Never play poker," she advised. "You'd have a horrible tell."

"My hair?!"

"Your eyes. I can always tell when you're worried or happy or anxious. Now out with it!"

Remus cleared his throat. "Well, honestly Hermione, it's not my news to give…"

"Oh?" She was obviously intrigued. "Then whose is it?"

Remus' eyes flickered to the low-cut dress, pooled in a heap of shimmering fabric on the floor, then quickly up to Hermione's eyes. "Give him a minute," Remus said softly. "He'll be here soon."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Is it -"

"Goddamn Londoners!" A loud, male voice echoed throughout the small dressing room. "Does no one have any respect for personal space?!"

"_Harry_!" Hermione shrieked, running across the room and wrapping her friend in a hug.

The dark-haired, green-eyed, thin young man let out a huff of breath as a ball of brown hair and excitement crashed into him, covering his suit jacket in stage makeup and almost knocking him back out the door. Remus rushed over and closed the dressing room door before any excited fans could follow the esteemed director into Hermione's room. It wouldn't do to have photographs of them all over the newspapers, what with Harry's recent marriage and all. Tongues would wag. Incorrectly, of course, but nevertheless…one couldn't be too careful.

"I didn't know you were coming!" Hermione said excitedly, speaking into Harry's shoulder as he was at least half-a-foot taller than her. "This is such a lovely surprise!"

"I'd never miss the chance to see a show starring you, Mia," Harry said, hugging his friend back. "You were fantastic, by the way. Absolutely stunning. Nice costumes, too."

"You aren't eating enough," she mumbled, changing the topic. "I thought your project ended, shouldn't the stress be gone?"

Harry nodded, pulling back from Hermione. "Yeah, _Reflections in Sunshine_ closed two weeks ago. But I've….I've found something else."

"Already?" Hermione seemed skeptical. "What happened to your honeymoon with Ginny?"

Harry blushed. "That – that happened," he stammered. "In Brighton."

"…Brighton," Hermione said dryly. "The best director in London marries a world-famous football player, and they cheap out on the honeymoon and go to _Brighton_."

"We were both busy!" Harry protested, running a hand through his uncontrollable hair. He was always fiddling with it in an attempt to cover a rather prominent scar that he'd gotten on his forehead as a child, but was usually unsuccessful. The scar was quite iconic, though, and served as a pretty recognizable feature with which to recognize the brilliant director.

"Rubbish," Hermione insisted, turning around and walking back to her vanity. "Too busy for love and marriage? Ridiculous."

"I don't see you spending too much of your free time with blokes, Mia," Harry said, teasing. "How_ ridiculous_ of you."

"I'm just always busy," Hermione replied, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. Harry opened his mouth, as if he was about to say more, when she jumped in again. "Thank you for the rose, by the way," she said. "It's really beautiful."

Harry smiled. "Well, I didn't think that I could top the _Les Mis _rose, but _Phantom _offers a convenient theme."

"Thank you again for everything," Hermione repeated, slipping on a very worn pair of winter boots. "Even coming here is incredibly thoughtful, you don't have to keep giving me flowers."

"I want to," Harry insisted. "Besides, I was hoping that the pretty flower might woo you over…it's something that you and the character of my show have in common."

"A love for plants?" Hermione asked, puzzled. "Oh god, Harry, _don't _tell me you've signed on to do _Little Shop of Horrors_." She looked genuinely terrified at the thought.

The director laughed, putting a reassuring hand on Hermione's shoulders. "No," he confirmed, "I'd never be so crazy at to attempt that. The musical that I'm taking on is much more….refined."

"I give up," Hermione said, exasperated. As much as she loved Harry, she really did want to go home and sleep. Performing was tiring. "Spill."

"That quickly?" Harry seemed outraged. "No, no no, you can't just _give _up. I'll give you some hints, okay?" Hermione just glared at him, raising one eyebrow. Harry, however, was unfazed. "This musical is _all I want_…." Silence. "Do you want me to just _show you_?" Silence. "C'mon, I know you want to get home, but I just want to head out to the club and _dance all night_."

"No!" Hermione gasped, her eyes wide and unblinking. "You…you're directing a revival of _My Fair Lady_?"

Harry nodded. "Opening in June of next year."

"That's fantastic!" Hermione exclaimed, looking around the room and focusing on Remus. "Did you know about this?" she asked her manager.

Remus raised his hands and shook his head. "He told me he had news, but not any specifics," Remus insisted.

The smile on Hermione's face was earth-shattering. "This is brilliant Harry, I'll be so excited to see it!"

Harry's green eyes quickly flashed to Remus, then to the ground. "Well, uh," he stuttered, obviously unsure of what he wanted to say. "I was, um, well, uh, I…I had hoped that you might want to be involved."

"….define involved."

"Oh, nothing too demanding…just…Eliza."

"Eliza Doolitle?!" Hermione shrieked. "The main bloody character?! You're out of your mind, Harry Potter, I swear to you!"

"Well, I -"

"I _told you_ that I planned to take time off after _Phantom_, and that if I worked I wanted it to be in New York!" Hermione's emotions were spiking dangerously. "It's not that you're not a fantastic director, Harry – god knows that _Macbeth _and _A Little Night Music _were the best shows of my career – but I just…I just can't. Don't you get it?"

Harry looked crestfallen. "Sorry Mia," he said, his voice low. "I didn't mean to upset you. I…I only thought that you'd be perfect." Hermione knew that he was going to try to reel her in, make her change her mind. She was determined not to be swayed. "I mean, it's _right _in your range, and Eliza is spunky and stubborn just like you, and, I mean, you both love flowers…"

"Not working," Hermione said flatly. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"Neville's agreed to be Freddie."

Hermione felt a flush of warmth fill her body. "Neville? Really?" she was surprised. He'd worked with her in both _Macbeth _and _A Little Night Music _- both shows directed by Harry - and Neville Longbottom had proved to be a brilliant and gentle actor. Everyone was incredibly surprised that he hadn't won the Critic's Circle Award that he'd been nominated for with his moving and subtle performance as Banquo. He'd be perfect for the role of Freddie, Eliza Doolittle's smitten (albeit ultimately unsuccessful) admirer. _No, no NO_, Hermione thought. _You will not be swayed._

"Minerva McGonagall is planning to audition for Mrs Higgins."

_The Olivier-winning, fantastic Minerva McGonagall, working in the same show. Now that's appealing._ Hermione shook her head. _No, NO! You're going to NEW YORK, you're TAKING A BREAK! _

"Who's playing Higgins?" she asked bluntly. "He's the most important person in the whole show, you have to have some ideas."

"Some, but none are concrete," Harry replied.

Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry Harry, but I just _can't_. You have to understand."

Rubbing his hands over his face, Harry seemed to be wracking his brain. Then, it was as if a lightbulb went off. "This is my last pitch, alright?" he said, too cheery.

_Uh oh._

"After this, if you say no, I'll be okay with it and walk out,okay?"

"…what's the catch?" she asked, hesitant.

"No catch. Just listen to this last point."

Hermione flicked her gaze to Remus, who shrugged. "…..I'm listening," she sighed.

"So," Harry started, already enthusiastic. "This isn't just a run-of-the-mill revival. There's something…special about it. We're…we're adding a song."

Hermione was silent. "….adding a song? Where? What's the point? Critics will have a field day with that, you know."

Waving his hand frantically, Harry got Hermione to shut up. "The song is going to be a duet between Higgins and Eliza," he explained. "It's going to happen right at the end, after she gives him his slippers, and it's going to be the ending and the love-link that's always been missing from the show."

_A new song. A duet. In my range. This sounds good…but NO!_

"And the composer is Filius Flitwick."

_….goddamn bugger bloody hell shit. Now I have to do it. Filius? A duet, written for me, by FILIUS FLITWICK, the most esteemed composer on the West End circuit! Damn it._

Harry could read Hermione's reactions in her face, apparently, because he was grinning from ear-to-ear. "Soooo," he said, drawing out the word ridiculously, "What do you think?"

"Remus?" Hermione asked, hoping for a lifeline.

_ Say that I can't do it, that I need the rest, that I'm too busy._

"Well," Remus started slowly, "it'd be a pretty dramatic career booster – not that you need it, 'Mione – and it _is _a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity….you could go over to New York after the run."

Glaring pointedly at her manager, Hermione mouthed the word "traitor" before walking across the room. She sat down on the chair in front of her vanity with a thud, resting her head in her hands. "Harry, you're a manipulative, horrid spoilsport who's just ruined my vacation," she said bitterly. "….but, you do know how to make a pitch."

"You'll do it?" Harry asked, clenching and unclenching his fists eagerly.

Hermione sighed and lifted her head. Brown eyes locked on hopeful green ones, invisible electricity filling the air. "Fine, I'll do it you bloody tosser."

Crowing in delight, Harry jumped across the room and gave Hermione a massive hug. "Thank you Mia!" he said, leaping up and running across the room to hug Lupin. "And thank _you _Remus, for allowing your star to take some time off from her vacation."

Remus looked incredibly overwhelmed to get a hug from the director, and he awkwardly returned it as best as he could. "We have to meet to discuss salaries and such," he stuttered, eyes wide.

Pulling back, Harry waved his hand. "I'm sure that'll be no problem. I'm sparing _no expense _for this show" – he threw a pointed glance at the still-hesitant-looking star – "and Hermione will be perfect."

"When are you holding auditions?" Remus asked, brushing off the lapels of his jacket as if Harry had rumpled them with his bear-hug.

"In two weeks," the director supplied. "Hermione can come if she'd like – we're trying a new technique this time."

"Oh god," Hermione moaned. "Blind auditions?!"

"There's some merit to them, Mia!" Harry protested, defending his position. "You can hear the voice, but you aren't influenced by names, their physical appearance, or what designer they're wearing. That's how you landed the role for _Phantom._"

"But it was so uncomfortable," Hermione insisted, shaking her head. "It's like you're in one of those soap-opera police rooms, the ones with the two-way mirrors and the cameras."

"…well…that is the basic set-up," Lupin pointed out, practical as always.

Just as Harry was about to protest again, Hermione raised her hands. She wasn't a demanding or eccentric actress, but when she had something to say people had bloody well better let her say it. Neither of the men in the room spoke. "It's fine," she said firmly, looking at Remus and Harry in turn. "I'm sorry I brought it up." Both of the men looked at each other apologetically. "Now," Hermione continued, bringing her hands together. "When and where are the auditions, exactly?"

"They start at eight o'clock in the morning on the thirteenth of January," Harry replied. "Everyone will be coming to that new rehearsal studio in the East."

"Crawley Rehearsal Hall?" Remus asked, obviously adding these details into his Blackberry planner.

"The very same," Harry confirmed. "We'd like to hold all of our rehearsals there, since those are some of the best facilities in London."

"Do you have a producer?" Remus asked pragmatically. Hermione gave a short nod, looking at Harry.

"We have four, actually," the director answered a bit smugly. It was difficult to get producers for revivals, but obviously the new song by Flitwick had swayed some people with big wallets. "There's myself, of course, then Sir Sirius Black -"

"Holy God," Lupin breathed, recognizing the name instantly. "You got multi-billionaire _Sir Sirius Black _to sign to this?!"

Harry smiled and shrugged. "We became friends during _Reflections in Sunshine_ since he was producing the show at the theater next door. He seemed really interested in _Lady_, and agreed to back us."

"Who are the other two producers?" Hermione asked, sparing a concerned glance for her obviously shocked manager.

"Professor Severus Snape has agreed to co-produce," Harry said, "but that's to be expected, what with Flitwick's contribution." Hermione nodded. Professor Snape was a wealthy man who used to play cello in the London Philharmonic, but was now teaching at the Royal Conservatory in London. He was an anti-social, somewhat brooding man, but he had inherited quite the fortune and knew how to recognize and appreciate good music. Hermione had only ever seen him on a handful of occasions. "And, finally," Harry said dramatically, "we have Weasley's Works and Wonders' backing."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Genuinely? Again!?" she said, throwing her hands up. "That family isn't made of money, yet they keep finding ways to support your hare-brained productions."

Shrugging, Harry lifted up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Maybe Ron is planning to audition," Harry suggested. "If they're sponsors, he has more of a chance of getting a role."

"But really," she huffed, obviously flustered. "I'm worried about back-room deals going on in that place. Honestly, how much money can one make running a joke shop and a magic show?"

"I've heard they're doing kids' birthday parties now," Remus interjected, looking up from his Blackberry where he was still rapidly typing. "That's supposed to be profitable."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Not _that_ profitable," she insisted, glaring at Harry.

"I have producers, though," Harry insisted. "Good ones, who'll stick with us if we can put on something worthwhile! And with you, Hermione, we're bound to produce something great."

Sighing, Hermione gave Harry a tired smile. "You have far too much confidence in me," she insisted, standing up and giving her friend another hug.

"I really don't think so," Harry insisted, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. He suddenly jumped back, his hand springing to his front pocket. Lifting out a ringing smartphone, Harry grimaced. "Is it that late already?" he asked, his face going pale.

Remus checked his Blackberry one last time before putting it into his pocket. "It's around eleven-thirty, yes," he answered calmly. "Did you have another engagement?"

Harry was staring at his phone and holding it as far away from himself as possible, like it would suddenly grow fangs and attack him. "I promised Ginny that I'd be home by now," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

Hermione smirked, knowing that the fiery red-headed woman would give her husband a talking-to when he got home. "Better get a move on then," she suggested. "Otherwise you'll be dead, and even _you_ can't direct a play from beyond the grave."

Remus laughed, and Harry cracked a pained smile. He was obviously terrified of his wife's rage. "Thanks again, Mia," he said, putting the phone tentatively back into his pocket. "You really are the best."

Hermione shook her head and smiled. "Thank you Harry," she said genuinely. "See you in a couple weeks."

"We'll be in touch," Remus supplied, shaking Harry's hand stiffly. He was obviously trying to indicate that hugs should not become normal between the two of them.

Harry left the small dressing room, and suddenly the air felt clearer and light. "Thank you Remus," Hermione said, giving her manager a small hug.

Remus returned the action enthusiastically, and Hermione smiled; obviously hugs between herself and her manager were still okay. "I think you'll love this, 'Mione," he said, pulling away from her. "It's a great opportunity."

"That's why I agreed to do it," she said, sighing. "Hopefully they cast a good Higgins. Is it wrong that I'm a tad excited for the auditions?"

Remus gave a bark-like laugh and shook his head, his hair swaying in time with his motions. "It'll be fun for you to be on the other side of the glass," he insisted. "But, for now I must be getting off."

"Of course," Hermione said, feeling silly that she'd kept the family-oriented-man so late. "Will Teddy be in bed by now?"

"He should be," Remus said, his brow furrowing slightly. "His mother has been known to be…._lenient _about bed-times."

Hermione laughed lightly and opened the door. "Have a nice night Remus, I'll call you tomorrow okay?"

"Looking forward to it," Remus promised, smiling as he walked out the door.

When her manager left, Hermione felt suddenly very alone and empty. She picked up the horrid dress that she'd – thankfully – never have to wear again, and hung it up next to her other costumes. Her shoes were lined up neatly on the floor of the closet, the jewellery stored in organized compartments inside of her jewellery box. _None of this is mine anymore_, she thought sadly. _Well, none of it was really mine to begin with…but I'll still miss it._

Hermione picked up Harry's rose and placed it delicately in her bag, so that the bloom and most of the stem were still exposed to the air. Looking around the room one last time, she felt a peculiar melancholy sweep over her. Lavender Brown would be coming in tomorrow to take her place as Christine, and all these costumes would be re-sized and transferred to her. _At least she'll fill that stupid dress_, Hermione thought to herself, laughing at the image.

And, even though she told herself that she wouldn't, not this time, Hermione walked over to her closet and riffled through her dresses, just like she did on her last night of every show. Flipping to the gorgeous, sequined dress that she wore for the "Think of Me" number, Hermione lifted it to the light. She dug her nails underneath a mid-sized, red, multi-faceted sequin, and it popped off the costume with little resistance. It had no real value, and would probably not even be missed, but Hermione wanted to remember her experience at _Phantom_. She curled her hand around the cheap sequin, feeling the small ridges digging into her palm. _This is perfect_, she thought. _A beautiful way to end such a beautiful experience. _

On that note, Hermione closed up her closet, slung her purse over her shoulder, and – still holding the sequin in her hand – turned off the lights in the dressing room and closed the door.

_Goodbye Christine….and hello Eliza. _

A/N: So, it begins again. :) This plot bunny came to me in the middle of the night, and I felt that I just _had _to get it out there ...so please, R&R and tell me what you think! Just as a note:

_My Fair Lady _is based on the play _Pygmalion_, written by George Bernard Shaw, which was converted into a musical written by Alan Jay Lerner (book & lyrics) and Frederick Loewe (music & score). None of the characters mentioned (Eliza, Freddie, Henry Higgens, etc.) belong to me, same with the music and lyrics. I'm just an excited theater-goer who appreciates the wonderful world that Lerner, Loewe, and Shaw have created.  
Also, works mentioned in this chapter that do not belong to me are:

_The Phantom of the Opera _(Andrew Lloyd Webber & Tim Rice)

_A Little Night Music _(Stephen Sondheim & Hugh Wheeler)

_Les Miserables _(Victor Hugo & Clade-Michel Schonberg)

_Macbeth _(William Shakespeare)

_Next to Normal _(Brian Yorkey & Tom Kitt)

_We Will Rock You _(Queen & Ben Elton)

_Oliver_ (Charles Dickens & Lionel Bart)

The play _Reflections in Sunshine _is my own creation though, and doesn't exist. :) Any and all of the above-mentioned plays and musicals are fantastic, and I'd recommend that you check them out! But, once again, I must emphasize that they do NOT belong to me. THANKS!

~sneakyslytherin


	2. Why Can't the English Learn to Sing?

In Hermione's opinion, the world would cease to spin if someone took chai tea lattes off of coffee shop menus. The best lattes could be found at her favourite little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, _The Magic Java Bean_, but if push came to shove any store would suffice…so long as they served chai tea lattes.

Walking down the Endell Street, heading towards Crawley Rehearsal Hall, Hermione was clinging onto her warm paper cup like a lifeline. She had a practical, very non-stylish tuke on, as well as a fashionable black trenchcoat, warm woolen scarf, knee-high leather boots, jeans, and a thick sweater, but she was still bloody cold. _London in January is definitely not a tourist destination_, Hermione thought sadly.

She found it wonderfully poetic that the closest tube station to Crawley Hall was the Covent Garden Station – the flower market where Eliza Doolittle first meets Henry Higgins in _My Fair Lady_ – and was also thoroughly pleased that _The Magic Java Bean _was relatively close to her tube station, Haggerston. All in all things seemed to be working out well with this project so far, so she decided to let herself feel just a little bit excited.

A vibration in her pocket caused Hermione to reluctantly take one hand off her coffee and reach for her phone. Seeing the goofy, smiling caller ID of Remus Lupin, Hermione grinned and picked up. "Hello, darling," she said, oozing false drama. "How are we today?"

"Positively fabulous," Lupin said, equally overdramatic. "Although I'd be even more fabulous if my breadwinning, gorgeous client would show up at the auditions for the role of her co-star."

Hermione laughed. "You sound like a fretting parent," she chided.

"That's in my contract," Remus said bluntly. "It's right there, in the fine print; 'must fuss over client as if you are her over-protective mother and she is a seventeen-year-old hormone-ridden teenager missing curfew'."

"Don't worry Mum," Hermione said, on the verge of giggling. "I'm almost there. I'm just about to hit Dudley Court."

"Brilliant. See you in a blink."

"Ta."

Hanging up, Hermione stuffed the cell phone into her jacket pocket. She took another sip of her latte, sighing happily as the warmth left a fuzzy trail down her body. She turned the corner onto Dudley Court, and was immediately confronted with a tall red-brick building that stretched up ominously on her left. Small patterns of white bricks were scattered across the upper half of the very large building, and Hermione could see various shop-fronts and restaurants stretching down the street. And there, just in front of a thin wooden door with small golden letters reading 'Crawley Rehearsal Hall', stood Harry.

His green eyes were staring pensively into space, his brow furrowed as if he was working out the secrets of the universe. He had his hands in the pockets of his black bomber jacket, and since he was leaning against the door he had one sneaker-clad foot resting lightly on top of the other. As per usual his hair was untamable, blowing about wildly in the British wind. From this perspective Hermione couldn't see his scar.

"Oi, weirdo!" she called out, half-cupping one of her hands around her mouth to magnify the sound. Harry jumped a bit, rejoining reality, and his eyes flittered around until they landed on Hermione. "Where's the party?" she shouted.

Harry broke into a grin. "Mia!" he called out, standing up straight. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Hermione said, walking towards Harry and giving him a light kiss on the cheek. "And, hey – I didn't know that you responded to 'weirdo' as well as Harry."

Flushing a little bit, Harry threw his arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Don't tell Ginny," he said quietly, joking. "Otherwise she'll get my birth certificate legally altered."

Hermione laughed and followed Harry through the door and into the rehearsal hall. The wooden stairs creaked under Hermione's feet, the noise echoing in the small, concrete-lined stairwell. "How was your Christmas?" Hermione asked, closing the door with a well-aimed kick behind her.

"Oh, brilliant," he replied enthusiastically. "We spent it with Ginny's family at their home in the country. Good grief there was a lot of red hair in one place….On Christmas Eve we had this giant football match outside in the snow, now _that _was fun. God knows it's been a long time since I've played football, but I was on Ginny's team, so we won. It was great to watch her pulverize everyone." Hermione had a perfect image in her head of Harry's beautiful wife, her red hair studiously pulled back, whipping around her brothers and laughing as she beat them all to the net. "How was your Christmas, Mia?" Harry asked, interrupting her thoughts. "Did you go anywhere?"

"No, not really," Hermione said, working very hard to keep the melancholy out of her voice. When Harry had been playing soccer with his in-laws, Hermione had been sitting on her couch in her pajamas in her little empty flat, a box of chocolates and a bowl of popcorn in front of her, watching Doctor Who and Law and Order re-runs on television. "It was a pretty quiet Christmas for me."

"Did your parents call?"

"Of course," Hermione said. She and Harry were almost at the top of the stairs. "But Christmas is a day earlier in Australia – time zone differences, you see – so they actually called on the twenty-third. My mother was quite flustered when she realized that...I think she's been down under too long."

Harry laughed. "How long have they been retired, again? It seems like it's been a while…"

"Four years," Hermione said quietly. _Four lonely Christmases. Four years of phone calls and Skype. Four birthdays spent by myself. _

"They flew down to see _Macbeth _though, right?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. "Yeah, last year."

She and Harry had reached the top of the creaky staircase, and had arrived at another glass-and-wood door that read "Crawley Rehearsal Hall". Harry lifted the plastic cover above the doorknob, revealing a small digital keypad. Pressing in a few numbers, the keypad gave a happy sounding 'beep' and the door swung open. Harry looked sideways at Hermione and smiled. "It's a paparazzi block," he explained. "You need the keycode to enter, and – trust me – no bugs with cameras will get it."

"Only the actors?"

"Yes. And the director and choreographers and such." Harry led Hermione through the door and into a large, lovely entryway, filled with sunshine from skylights and decorated in a light-wooden theme. They turned to the left, heading towards a door labeled 'Audition Rooms'. Harry continued talking about the digital mechanism; "You get three tries to enter the passcode on the stairwell, and then the door locks you out. After that, someone on the inside has to open it for you."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "That sounds awfully tricky. What if no one's inside when this happens?" she pointed out.

Harry shrugged. "There's a way to override it, but we probably won't need to use that." He leant forwards and opened the audition room door. Giving a small, mock bow, Harry extended his arm. "After you," he insisted, smiling.

Hermione gave Harry a small, fake curtsey in return, and then entered the room. There were two more doors in front of her, one labeled 'Applicants', and the other labeled 'Assessors'. Opening the 'Assessor' door, Hermione was greeted by a truly beautiful sight; plush chairs were situated in rows before a large, black panel, and an overwhelming mahogany table filled with food, coffee, and drinks was in the middle of the room. A blood-red carpet provided stark contrast to the ivory, off-white wallpaper.

"'Mione!" an excited Remus Lupin waved while walking around the food table towards Hermione, giving her a light hug. "Nice of you to not be too ridiculously late," he whispered in her ear, a little irritated. He plucked the almost-empty latte cup out of her hands and threw it into a garbage by the door.

"It was only by five minutes," she whispered back. "I had some trouble with my oyster card on the tube. Now hush, _mum_."

Remus pulled back, smiling. "So," he said, rubbing his hands together, "I believe some introductions are in order. Everyone, this is Hermione Granger, my beloved – if tardy – client." Some light chuckles filled the small room, but Hermione couldn't tell who they were coming from. "Hermione, this young gentleman is Bill Weasley, a representative from the Weasley investor family.

A redhead, looking to be about in his early-to-mid thirties, stood up from his chair and moved to shake Hermione's hand. He was fit and very well dressed, but Hermione was surprised to see that he had several large scars marring the left side of his face. The jagged, uneven skin seemed very off-kilter with the rest of Bill's appearance, and Hermione immediately flicked her eyes away from that area of his face. Gentle blue eyes met hers, and Hermione smiled. "Nice to meet you Bill," she said, extending her hand. "Usually it's George who comes to these things – it's nice to finally meet another one of the Weasleys."

Bill smiled, the action making his scars crinkle and fold over one another. The effect was somewhat macabre, the left side of his face pulling up to give his expression an almost feral quality, but the smile itself was obviously genuine and kind. "Thank you Miss Granger," he said politely. "George was busy today with a business pitch in Ireland, so he sent me." Looking around for a moment, Bill leaned in and said quietly, smiling; "Plus, Mum figured we should have a business-sound head involved in our investments every once and a while. Lord knows that's not George."

Hermione laughed, pulling her hand out of Bill's loose, friendly grip. "Do you spend much time around music, Bill?" she asked. "I know that George's experience extends solely to The Beatles and Marilyn Manson."

Giving Hermione one of his terrifying grins, Bill laughed. "I, uh, I don't know too much about theater," he admitted, his smile a bit sheepish, "but I did play in a rock band for several years, so I do know _something _about music."

Hermione heard an impertinent sniff after Bill's comment, and she turned her head slightly towards the rude, condescending sound. Quickly filling the awkward post-sniff silence, Lupin jumped in and said, "This, Hermione, is Professor Severus Snape from the Royal Conservatory. You two move in the same circles, but I don't think you've ever met."

_Ah,_ Hermione thought, satisfied. _The identity of the sniffer is revealed_. "Hello Professor," she said, nodding a head towards the tall, brooding man dressed in black dress pants and a black turtleneck. "It's a pleasure to finally meet someone that I've heard so much about."

"Likewise," the Professor said dryly, his lips curled back in a half-sneer.

_I don't like him_, Hermione thought immediately, irritated by his arrogance. _He may be a rich, handsome, musical genius, but that doesn't mean he can be an ass to people who didn't study at the best music schools in Britain. Harumph._

"And this, Hermione, is _Sir_ Sirius Black."

Hermione's gaze moved over to where Lupin was standing, obviously bursting with pride, next to a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a stylish grey three-piece suit. His brown eyes seemed honest and gentle, but the lines on his face betrayed his age and fatigue; his life had obviously not been easy. A thought niggled in the back of Hermione's mind – some article about the Black family and prison, scandal, et cetera – but it vanished before it was fully realized.

"Sir Black," Hermione said, inclining her head again. "It's good of you to join us – usually wealthy patrons will just send emissaries and ambassadors to these kinds of auditions."

"Call me Sirius, please," the man insisted, taking a step towards Hermione and extending his hand. She shook it lightly, smiling. "And, I would _never _send a hireling to do my job for me, Miss Granger. I'm sure that Harry" – he gestured towards the closed door by which the director was standing – "has a great show in the works here, and I'd like to be a part of the process."

Hermione pulled her hand away, still smiling. "Well, in that case, Sirius, it's a pleasure to work for you, and you absolutely _must_ call me Hermione."

When he smiled, the worry lines and age seemed to slip off Sirius' face; he looked as if he were fifteen years younger, carefree, and happy. "Of course, Hermione," he said, obviously getting his tongue around the strange name. "Is that Welsh?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

Before Hermione could reply, Harry jumped in; "Sirius, you'll have time to hit on the actresses later," he joked, making Hermione blush and causing Sirius to shoot her a roguish smile. "There's one more person that you need to be introduced to, 'Mione, and we've saved the best for last."

"I'm insulted," Sirius said dryly, sitting down in a particularly plush armchair in the front row of seats. Lupin casually grabbed a muffin from the breakfast spread before sitting down beside Black, reverential awe still emanating from his eyes and body language.

Harry didn't even acknowledge the lord's comment. Instead, he grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her around to the aisle seat in the second row of the little mini-theater, beside Professor Snape. She hadn't thought that there was anyone sitting there, but obviously she was wrong. "Hermione," Harry said, sounding very dramatic. "This is composer Filius Flitwick. I'm sure you've heard of him."

Hermione's heart stopped. Eyes wide, breathing shallowly, she walked around so that she could see the front of the chair. A small, smiling man came into her field of vision, his feet not even reaching the floor; if Hermione had to guess, she'd put him at around 4' 5'', but he _was_ sitting down which made guessing harder. Looking very professional in a navy blue suit and black dress shoes, his light brown hair gelled back slightly, Filius Flitwick measured up to every expectation Hermione had for him. His pale, freckled complexion, his blue eyes, the hooked nose, the thick glasses – it was all there, just like his picture in _Time _magazine from last year.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Granger," Flitwick said, his voice strangely high.

"The honour is entirely mine, Mister Flitwick," Hermione blurted, strangely resisting an impulse to curtsey. "I absolutely love your work – _Something Different _is my favourite musical, I swear I've worn out my CD."

Flitwick gave a light laugh, and Hermione could have melted. Her life was officially complete. "Yes," the small composer nodded, "_Something Different _is one of my favourites too. If I could impose, may I ask what your favourite song is?"

_Flitwick just asked for my opinion on his work_, Hermione thought, her brain whirring and buzzing, completely overloaded. _Holy shiitake mushrooms._

"Contemplating Summer," she said, without a hint of hesitation in her voice. "The song just perfectly captures the mood of the play, perfectly emulating Sophie's hope and sadness about her future."

"Hope?" The deep, baritone voice of Professor Severus Snape cut into Hermione's beautiful conversation. "How exactly does 'Contemplating Summer' emulate hope, Miss Granger?" he sneered, his overly-long, greasy black hair falling into his face. "It's a song about death, about how she'll never _see _another summer."

"Yes, that too," Hermione said coolly. "But if you listen to the words –really listen – you hear the message of hope, you hear that she's still thinking she might survive and pull through."

"When?" Severus snapped, obviously irritated that Hermione hadn't just given in and shut up. "Please, enlighten me."

"There are two verses in particular…" Hermione trailed off. Throughout this entire discourse, Flitwick had remained silent, watching Hermione and Severus argue as if he were following a tennis match. When Hermione looked down at him, Flitwick smiled, nodding his head slightly. Elated and encouraged, she grinned. Hermione spared a quick glance at Lupin before closing her eyes and clearing her throat. In the silence of the room, she sang out the words that she practically had engraved onto her soul by now;

_Snow has fallen, white on white_

_The cold a strong reminder_

_That in my life, so uncontrolled_

_I'm merely a bystander._

_And although I know it's likely that I'll never see another_

_I'll while away the wintertime by contemplating summer_

_There is so much left to do,_

_So much I'll leave undone._

_My body, it betrays me_

_Wilts like flowers without sun._

_And though my body and my soul both march to different drummers,_

_I swear my soul will always hold the heat and joy of summer._

After Hermione finished her last, lingering note, she felt the room fall into complete silence. While she was singing Hermione hadn't noticed that everyone in the room was looking at her; now, though, she felt their eyes burning into her skin, their minds whirring, opinions being formed. It was almost as if everyone in the room had stopped breathing.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Hermione looked down at the Professor. His expression was neutral, impassive, but his eyes betrayed him; he was surprised. _In a good way, or a bad? _Hermione wondered, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. "So," she said, her voice sounding like nails on a chalkboard in the silence, "You can see that the song isn't about resignation related to death, but rather Sophie's determination to continue living, _despite _death. It's about sadness" – she looked down to see Flitwick nodding – "but also about hope."

Making constant eye-contact with the tips of her boots, Hermione walked around to the front row and sat beside Lupin. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes were watering ever so slightly as she picked up the stack of papers on the table in front of her chair. The words "Blind Auditions" blurred before her eyes.

"When are the first people supposed to get here, Harry?"

Hermione could have kissed Sirius for breaking the silence, his jovial and excited tone dissolving the tension and changing the mood in the room. A general, light chatter filled the room as people started talking to whoever was beside them, but Hermione could feel Severus' eyes on the back of her neck. Shivering, she looked back down at her papers.

"Why are there so few contestants?" she asked Lupin beside her. "There should at least be fifty for each role."

"Auditions have been taking place since January third, Hermione," Lupin said calmly. "These are final call-backs – there are five contestants for almost each of the four main roles, but that's it."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Nice of Harry to weed out the sketchy ones for us," she said, filling out her name on the top of her ballots.

A few moments later an alarm went off from some corner of the room. It seemed to be a signal of some sort, as everyone helped themselves to a last bit of breakfast before sitting down and filling out the beginnings of their ballots. Harry sat down – rather gracelessly – beside Hermione, pulling his thick sheaf of papers towards himself. "Alright everyone," he said decently loudly, addressing the six judges in the room, "I'll be the questioner for all the contestants. Don't worry about names or anything, just write down your notes beside the contestant number and on the character sheet. When in doubt, go with your ears' judgment ladies and gents."

The last remark earned Harry a half-hearted chuckle from Sirius and Bill, but the two men grew silent as the sounds of footsteps became audible through the audition-room microphone. "Uh, hello?" A strange male voice came from the speakers situated in the four corners of the room. "Is this right?"

Harry picked up a small, old-fashioned microphone and pulled it closer to him. "Yes, if you're here for the auditions you're in exactly the right place."

The invisible contestant breathed a sigh of relief. "Brilliant," he said, and Hermione made a small note on her page that Colonel Pickering, Contestant A had a lower class accent. _Not the best idea for someone portraying a seasoned, decorated, and somewhat uppity war veteran_, she thought pragmatically.

"Alright then," Harry continued, "let's get started, shall we?"

"Righty-oh."

"Why are you interested in the role of Colonel Pickering?"

All the judges leaned forward slightly, pencils poised over virtually blank pages, ready for anything. "Well, growin' up watchin' _My Fair Lady _wif me mum, I came to really love the story and all that. When I was little I loved the Colonel because he was a soldier an' all, so when I saw the advert I thought – brilliant! I can live out me childhood!"

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice emotionless as he jotted down notes on his page.

Everyone else seemed to be writing essays, but all that Hermione had written beside "Contestant A" was the word 'sentimental'.

"Okay then," Harry said, clicking the button on the top of his pen anxiously. "In a moment we're going to pipe in the music for "You Did It", will you sing for us?"

"Well, tha's what I came here for, innit?"

"…yes, I suppose so." Harry seemed very tired all of a sudden. Reaching for a small remote on the table in front of him, Harry pressed play. The judges all listened eagerly, waiting for the intro to finish so that Contestant A could terrify or inspire them.

It turned out to be the former.

For Hermione, the day progressed incredibly slowly. They'd started off with the more minor characters – Colonel Pickering, Mister Doolittle, and Mrs Higgins – but there were very few candidates that she was impressed with.

The Colonel Pickering men were decent; A was good with script-reading, but somewhat horrendous at the singing (_Although, _Hermione thought to herself, _it's not as if Pickering has that much of a singing part…_), B was a decent singer but apparently couldn't read English, C had a tenor voice – _a tenor! Auditioning for a bass part! Ludicrous._ – but D proved to be a mixed surprise. His answers to Harry's questions weren't all that inspiring – "Well, it's a paying job, isn't it? What other motivations would I require?" – but his voice was very well-suited to the music and his reading of the lines seemed in-character. E had a better introduction than D, but Hermione found his voice lacking in comparison to the earlier candidate. _If only I could see them_, she thought, frustrated.

Hermione had been looking forward to the Mister Doolittle auditions, as Eliza's raucous, comedic, drunken father was one of her favourite characters, however Contestant B made her slightly nervous. A's voice had been decent, and fairly acceptable, but B's voice was absolutely familiar. As soon as the man behind the black screened-window started singing, Hermione knew that she had heard that voice before. Looking around the room briefly, Hermione noticed that Bill looked particularly tense, frowning at his paper. In a flash of ginger hair and divine inspiration, an image of the man singing popped into her head: _Ronald Weasley. Shit._

She was certain of it. The waxy tenor, lower-class accent (perfectly suited for Mister Doolittle…), the way that he'd answered the question, the mention of a large family. _Shitshitshitshittttttt, _she thought, barely paying attention to the end of "With a Little Bit of Luck". She knew he could hit the notes. _Does this affect my integrity as a judge? _she wondered, a bit afraid. _It's a personal bias._

Drawing a large star on her page beside Contestant B, Hermione stared off into space. She barely noticed that she'd traced the star so forcefully that she'd pushed through the paper. Was it just her, or did contestants C, D, and E seem thoroughly inadequate compared to Ron? None of them had the right tone, the right range, the right inflection. _Screw him, _she thought angrily. _He's always the goddamned wrench in the works, isn't he?_

There was a slight gap between the Mister Doolittle auditions and the Mrs Higgins auditions, so Hermione stood up to go grab a muffin. Long after she'd finished the actual food, she realized that she was nervously shredding the thin wax wrapping with her fingernails. Shocked at her nerves, Hermione dropped the eviscerated packaging onto the table in front of her. A light laugh from behind her made her turn.

"Recognize the voice?" Bill asked, giving Hermione a lopsided, grotesque grin.

Hermione stiffened. "I, uh, well…" she trailed off, shrugging.

Looking back and forth quickly, his gaze lingering for a moment on Professor Snape chatting with Harry, Bill leaned forwards towards Hermione. "I thought he did rather well," he whispered. "I mean, E was pretty close, but his reading was better."

Hermione let out a breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Yes," she said quickly. "I believe he did rather well."

Turning around abruptly, she pulled out her cell phone just to give herself something to do until the process re-started.

Luckily she didn't have too long to wait. Soon enough the elderly ladies auditioning for Mrs Higgins, the gruff but loveable mother of Eliza Doolittle's mentor and love-interest, started arriving. A through D were fine – nothing overly spectacular, but nothing bad either – but E made everyone in the audition room sit up a bit straighter in their seats. As soon as the door creaked open, everyone noticed that this contestant appeared to have three footsteps; step, CLUNK, step. Step, CLUNK, step.

_Someone with a cane. _Hermione smiled slightly, Harry's words from December coming back to her. _This must be Minerva McGonagall_, she thought, electricity tingling through her fingertips.

The woman in the blacked out room cleared her throat. "Should I just start singing?" she asked, her slightly Scottish accent immediately recognizable.

"Go right ahead," Harry said, smiling into the microphone.

Although Mrs Higgins wasn't a very music-oriented part, all of the applicants had been asked to sing phrases from the chorus number, "Ascot Gavotte". They'd all done it quite well, putting on frightfully upper-class accents and sounding incredibly posh and arrogant, but Hermione thought that McGona – _contestant E _ - did it the best. At one particular line – "Everyone who should be here is here" – Hermione almost burst out laughing; the way that she'd spun the word 'here' to sound more like 'hair' was hilarious, and so true of uppity British minor-royalty.

Everyone put stars, smiley faces, and checks next to Contestant E's name on the sheet. Why Harry had even made her audition was beyond Hermione's ken.

"I seem to be missing the audition sheets for the role of Freddie." Professor Snape's baritone, arrogant voice echoed through the temporarily silent room.

"That's because we're not having auditions for Freddie," Harry said lightly, a little bit of tension evident in the way that he gripped his pencil. "The role's already gone to Neville Longbottom."

"Neville _what_?" Snape asked, incredulous. "Giving an unknown actor a role without making them audition – no matter how good they may be – is preposterous!"

Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione jumped in too quickly: "Neville is positively wonderful," she said sharply. "I acted across from him in _Macbeth_, and heard him sing when I went to see him in _The Producers_. He is absolutely fantastic, and I really don't think it's your place to question the director's judgment in these matters."

Turning her head around abruptly, Hermione stared fixatedly on the black screen in front of her. "Technically," Harry whispered into her ear, his voice barely audible, "he _is _giving me the money for this show. He's perfectly within his rights to call my decisions into question."

"Well he doesn't have to be such a pompous ass about everything," Hermione hissed. "He doesn't even _know_ Neville, I mean -"

Hermione's rant was cut off as the noise of the door to the audition room opening came over the speakers. "Hello?" a deep, male voice called out. "Am I where I'm supposed to be?"

Hermione's heart froze in her chest. _I know that voice_, she thought, her eyes widening.

Scrambling forwards to pick up the microphone, Harry said, "Yes, hello!" a bit too quickly. "You're here to audition for the role of Henry Higgins, I trust?"

"The best role in the play, yes."

_Goddamn bugger it all shit bloody fuck…._ Hermione dropped her head into her hands. A tap on her shoulder caused her to look up, Lupin's concerned gaze meeting hers overtop of Harry's shoulders. He raised one eyebrow, silently asking if she was okay, but Hermione shook her head. Mouthing the word, "Cormac", she watched as all the blood drained from Lupin's face.

"….well really it's all about the story, you know?" he was saying, his voice oozing false sincerity. "And, _My Fair Lady _was my grandmother's favourite musical. She…she just passed, recently and I – I – if I were to get the role, I would dedicate my performance to her memory."

Hermione almost puked. Falsely tripping himself up, bringing himself to the verge of tears. _He probably doesn't even have a grandmother, _she thought bitterly. _As the spawn of the devil, I think one is only concerned with one's father._ And then, like a ton of bricks, a thought hit her; _One of the next five candidates is going to become Higgins. I'm going to spend twenty-four hours a day with him, seven days a week, getting into our characters and acting out the scenes. I'm going to sing an entirely new duet with him, filled with emotion and tension…._

_Good God Hermione, you'd better pick the right one. _

_And there'd better be a better contestant than Cormac bloody McLaggen. _

She listened in disgust as he delivered an overwrought – albeit well-sung – performance of "I'm an Ordinary Man". Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Snape sneer at the black wall and scribble harshly on his page, while Flitwick, Sirius, and Bill gave no outward impression of their thoughts. _Well,_ she sighed to herself, _at least the stupid arrogant git will be on my side when I vote we throw Contestant A into a pit of hungry sharks._

With a seemingly endless stream of 'thank you for the opportunity's and 'you're all so kind', 'it's all about the experience's, Cormac finally left the room. Hermione sat up eagerly to hear Contestant B, but slumped back as soon as he started singing. _Not as good as Cormac_, she thought, distraught, wondering if she could back out of the project at this point.

When C entered the room, however, his opening comment immediately made Hermione feel better:

"Are these the auditions for _My Fair Lady_, or did I somehow end up on _Law and Order_?" he asked the empty, blacked-in audition space. "This room seems awfully like one of those soap-opera police examination areas, the ones where people spontaneously confess to cold-blooded murders."

Hermione put her hand over her mouth to stop a laugh. _I like this one so far, _she thought. His accent was soft, not too prominent – _probably from the West_ – and his tone was polite.

Clearing his throat, Harry brought the invisible contestant to silence and wrested Hermione away from her thoughts. "Alright, Contestant C," he said, his voice neutral and his facial expression blank, "why do you want the role of Henry Higgins?"

There was a moment of silence, and Hermione could hear the sound of the man inhaling. "I have two answers," he started slowly, and Hermione could picture a head tilting, eyes meeting hers. "The first is petty, but it's honest; I'm genuinely broke right now, and could use the money associated with a decent, well-reviewed play."

_Oh dear_, Hermione thought, shaking her head. _One strike._

"I've followed my heart recently when it came to my projects, and…well, none of them worked out quite as I'd anticipated."

"And what's reason number two?" Harry asked, his voice impressively emotionless.

"…you're going to think it's corny," C said.

"Try me," Harry said dryly. Hermione stifled another laugh, thinking of Cormac's overwrought sob story.

A loud sigh was heard, followed by a 'thump' that meant C had sat down in the chair in the center of the audition room. "It's just…I just _love _theater," he said emphatically, sounding incredibly genuine. "Up until a few years ago I'd just done acting on telly – some small jobs for BBC, a show in America that didn't make it past the pilot – but when I was in New York, my agent suggested that I audition for the chorus of _Wicked_. Ever since I stepped foot on that stage, I've never wanted to leave theaters. New York, London, Toronto – hell, I'd even perform in the middle of nowhere in Scotland where no one appreciates decent acting unless they've had at least six shots of whiskey." Hermione tried her best not to laugh, but allowed herself a smile as Sirius let out a very unsophisticated guffaw.

Contestant C continued. "_My Fair Lady _is a beautiful story, and I'd love to be a part of it."

There was a long period of time where all Hermione heard was the scratching of pens on paper, the ink casting this unseen young man in either a positive or negative light. His future was entirely based on the little, faint noises, and it made Hermione's stomach plummet to think, _Mine does too._

"I warned you that it would be sappy."

Everyone in the room – except for Snape, of course – let out a chuckle at that comment. This young man obviously had quite the sarcastic sense of humour. Harry pulled the microphone back towards himself. "Now that we're done with sentimentality, would you please sing "I'm an Ordinary Man" for us?"

"No thank you."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Lupin raised his eyebrows and shot Hermione a scandalized look, while Flitwick's eyes looked like they were about to bulge out of his skull.

"I…I was hoping I might be able to sing a different song," C asked, trying to sound confident. "'I'm an Ordinary Man' is a fine song, really, but it represents the _early _Higgins; the petty Professor who views Eliza only as a nuisance and a project. That's a relatively easy part to act, all things considered. I'd like, if you'll permit me, to sing 'I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face' from Act II. In this song Higgins has matured, and he is attempting to voice the conflicting feelings he has for the beautiful Miss Doolittle."

C held his breath.

"We don't have the music for that on hand," Harry said, his voice surprisingly kind, "but if you'd like to sing it a capella, be my guest."

With a whoosh of air, C quickly said, "Thank you Mister Potter, I appreciate it." Then there was only silence.

Hermione closed her eyes and imagined herself inside the small, black room, watching a faceless young man sitting on the chair. He was breathing deeply, eyes closed, adopting a different personality altogether. Replacing light sarcasm with cutting insults, joviality with competition, certainty with confusion, Contestant C was slowly becoming Henry Higgins.

The song started out harsh, with Henry angry at Eliza for leaving him and setting out on her own to marry Freddie. After a few slow moments, however, the song became reflective.

"I've grown accustomed to her face," C sang, his voice strong and sure, filled with confusion and betrayal at his own emotions.

"She almost makes the day begin/I've grown accustomed to the tune that/she whistles night and noon. Her smiles, her frowns/her ups, her downs/are second nature to me now; like breathing out and breathing in. I was serenely independent and content before we met/surely I could always be that way again – and yet/I've grown accustomed to her look/accustomed to her voice/accustomed to her face."

Eyes still closed, Hermione watched her imaginary contestant sing. His lips formed the words perfectly, his voice never faltering, facial expressions changing accordingly. He was in love – hopelessly so – but also determined _not _to be. He was confused, enlightened, happy, despondent…Henry Higgins was a chaotic mess of emotion, and Hermione heard that in every syllable of the song.

During the bridge he became angry again, describing the miserable life that Eliza was bound to live without Freddie, and how when she returned to him he would never take her in…but in a prolonged silence where in the musical there would be a score, she could see the professor's shoulders slumping, resigned; he was in love, the woman that he loved had left him because of his own stupidity, and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

"She's rather like a habit/one can always break – and yet/I've grown accustomed to the trace/of something in the air"…..there was a slight pause…. "accustomed to her face."

Hermione kept her eyes closed for several long moments, waiting until the last echoing trace of that final note has disappeared from the world. When she opened her eyes again, she'd made up her mind completely.

In that song she'd seen everything; she'd seen the compassion and depth of emotion that Contestant C had, she'd seen how well they'd work across from each other. Intuitively, she knew that their voices would blend, and in her mind's eye she could see them singing the unwritten, barely-imagined new duet, filling a theater with raw emotion so powerful that it shook the very foundations of musical performances for decades to come.

Smiling, Hermione wrote down four words beside the slot labeled "Contestant C" on her page:

_This is the One._

A/N: Here's the second chapter! Please R&R, this is (in my opinion) a complex and selective story idea and I'd really appreciate knowing what you guys think about it. :) The works in this chapter that do not belong to me are

_Wicked_(Stephen Schwartz & Winnie Holzman)

_Macbeth _(Shakespeare)

and _The Producers _(Mel Brooks & Thomas Meehan)

The lyrics and other titles in this chapter are original. And, I promise, Draco will meet Hermione face-to-face VERY SOON! :) :)

Love, always, ~sneakyslytherin


	3. Wouldn't It be Loverly?

No debate in the history of time had ever been as intense as that specific casting discussion. Sure, the Congress of Vienna and the Treaty of Versailles might have been in the initial running, and Galileo's case against the Catholic Church would have come close, but in the end they would have all lost to the casting debate taking place inside the audition assessor's room.

The table had been divided like a battle ground, carcasses of muffin wrappers and empty coffee cups littering the no-man's land between opposing forces. On one side, Harry, Bill, Sirius, and Flitwick sat together; on the other, Lupin and Hermione sat on either side of a brooding and shouting Severus Snape. _Three-to-four odds, _Hermione thought. _That's not good._

At first, their conversation had been completely civilized…._Wouldn't it be nice if things could just be simple?_

"So, can we safely eliminate candidates A, B, and C from the Colonel pool?" Harry asked, his pen poised dramatically over the final casting sheet.

"I liked A's enthusiasm," Sirius said from his reclined position, his feet crossed and up on the table. Lazily, he chucked a muffin wrapper into the growing pile of garbage at the center of the table. "But," he sighed, continuing, "his accent was off-putting. You could hear it in his reading."

"Cross him out," Remus said, spinning his pen in his fingers.

"So, D or E?" Harry asked, putting down his pen and pressing his fingertips together.

"I vote E," Bill said firmly. "He had a great voice."

"I'd say that D's voice was equally good," Hermione interjected, smiling apologetically at Bill. "I also think that D mastered the reading far better."

"I second Miss Granger," Flitwick called out, his high voice tremulous and quiet despite the fact that he was obviously trying to speak loudly.

"But his answer to the question was horrible," Bill whinged. "I mean, do you really want to work with a jerk who's only taking the job because of the money?"

"If you eliminated every candidate with that motivation, you'd be left with a third of the performers in Britain," Snape said dryly, his comment causing eyes to flick away from the table towards where he was leaning against the wall of the room.

"Severus has a point," Remus commented, nodding in Snape's general direction. "D seemed to master the character fairly well."

Bill sighed. "You're the experts," he said, sounding slightly defensive. "I'll trust your judgement."

"D?" Harry asked, looking around to every person in the room. Hermione smiled, Remus blinked in affirmation, Flitwick and Sirius nodded, and Snape tilted his chin up. Bill's expression appeared not to change at all. "D it is, then." Harry marked down their choice on the sheet, pulling his laptop out from a bag under the table. The screen lit up with a little three-note song, and Hermione could see a Microsoft Outlook inbox reflected in the director's glasses.

"I thought we were in a technology quarantine," Snape drawled, his eyes narrowing. He was glaring at the laptop as if it would suddenly transform into a particularly disgusting insect.

"_You_ are in a technology quarantine," Harry corrected, clicking open a specific email. "_I _get to check some things….ah! Here we are! Candidate D is Theodore Nott, age twenty-six, resident of Wales."

Spinning the computer screen around so that everyone at the table could see, the panel got a first look at the contestant that they had been so impressed with. Beside his name, age, and other particulars, there was a photo of a sallow, pale young man with dark hair and brown eyes. His hair was short, cut close to his skull, and he was wearing thick, wide-framed glasses in his photo. With his lips curled into a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, the photo gave the impression that Theodore was sad, intelligent, and slightly disdainful.

"He's so young," Snape sneered, breaking the silence. "Is he really fit to play a middle-aged, boorish colonel?"

"The decision's been made," Harry said firmly. He spun his laptop around and shut it with a click. "No going back now."

Snape glowered, his hateful stare fixed on Harry. "I hope you know what you're doing," he muttered, his voice so low that Hermione – sitting in the chair right in front of where he was standing - could barely hear it.

"Alright," Harry said, attempting to refocus the judges. "Next we have Mister Doolittle. Any immediate preferences?"

"I liked Candidate B," Sirius said, snatching another muffin off the table. "He seemed…down to earth, you know? Like he'd be a likable Mister Doolittle."

"I second that," Lupin said enthusiastically, grinning at the man beside him. Sirius shot him a lopsided smile in return.

"B _was_ pretty good," Bill said.

Hermione tried to repress her frown. Bill _knew _that B was his brother, rightfully he wasn't supposed to weigh in on the discussion! Let the others discuss it, and only interject if absolutely necessary…

"I, personally, would have chosen C," Snape said lowly. "He seemed more _mature_." The musician drew out his final word for an obscenely long period of time, his gaze focussed on the back of Harry's head. Blinking, Snape looked up at Hermione. "What do you think, Miss Granger?" he asked, unexpectedly. "Did you like Candidate B as much as these three here?"

Hermione swallowed. _Shit_, she thought, hitting the red panic button in her mind. "Err, well," she stuttered, trying to find an answer that didn't entirely give her away. "Both candidates were good, but both did one thing better than the other…I mean, B could sing better, but C could read better. It's all a matter of preference, really."

Bill was giving her a strange look, his head cocked sideways and his eyebrow raised. He was throwing an uneaten orange back and forth between his hands. Hermione quickly looked away, a blush colouring her cheeks as she stared fixedly on a stained patch of rug.

But, of course, Snape had to interject once again. "And what, pray tell, is your preference, Miss Granger?" he drawled, a malicious smirk redefining his features.

_Shit. _"I…I don't really know," she said indecisively, watching as Snape's brow furrowed. "What do you think, Flitwick?"

The small composer flinched when he heard his name called. _Obviously being a recluse affects your social skills_, Hermione thought, leaving her face neutral and passive under Snape's accusing glare.

"I believe that Candidate B would be my preferred choice," the small man squeaked, adjusting his perfectly knotted black tie. "His voice was richer than Candidate C, and he appeared perfectly capable of mastering the character's lines."

Snape opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, his eyes burning in Hermione's direction, however he was interrupted by Harry. "That's a majority then," he said, marking something down on his sheet. "Let's have a look at Candidate B, shall we?"

As Harry opened his laptop and fiddled around with his emailed profiles, Hermione looked at Bill, her eyes slightly narrowed. The red-head shrugged, a lazy smile flitting across his features. Hermione sighed, and thought to herself; _show business. _

"I'd like to introduce you all to Mister Doolittle," Harry said dramatically, spinning his laptop to face the table.

Hermione's thoughts were concretely confirmed when she found herself staring at a picture of Ronald Weasley, the youngest male of the enterprising red-headed family. It was a flattering photograph; his prominent arm-muscles, gained by playing very competitive sports for his entire life, were well-defined by his tight t-shirt, and his blue eyes seemed genuinely lively and interested. A light dusting of freckles covered his skin, and his carrot-coloured hair managed to look good while flopping every which way. Unlike so many posed photographs, Ron's smile seemed legitimate and real, not like he'd been commanded to smile for some artsy photographer hungering for a paycheck.

He'd looked much different the last time Hermione had seen him; Ron had played Macduff in Harry's production of _Macbeth_, and had apparently become quite infatuated with her during the process. It was incredibly awkward turning down his numerous proposals to 'grab coffee, or dinner, or whatever', and he always managed to look like a rejected puppy dog whenever she gave her carefully practiced replies. When the show had ended, she would have honestly been happy to never see him again.

Fate, in this case, had been kind. Ron had gone straight from _Macbeth _to _The Mousetrap_, and had fallen head over heels in love with one of his co-stars. He and Mrs Lillian Weasley (née Shepherd) had just celebrated their third anniversary, according to _The Evening Standard_, and Hermione no longer had anything to worry about. _Thank God_, she thought, turning away from the smiling photograph. _Now he's one of my co-workers…that could have been awkward._

"A Weasley," Snape spat, disdain obvious in his voice. Suddenly springing off the back wall and taking a long, single step to the table, the irate musician slammed his hands down onto the wood and caused Sirius to quickly move his feet back down to the floor. "You're telling me you didn't recognize your own sibling, Bill?" Snape snapped, leaning ominously over the elder Weasley.

Bill appeared remarkably unfazed. Shrugging, he looked down at his notes. "Nope," he said bluntly. "I can't say that I did. The accent seemed familiar, but there are loads of actors who grew up in the same area as us."

"Bullshit," Snape hissed, barely moving his lips.

"I beg your pardon?" Bill stated, obviously a bit disgruntled.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Snape sneered. "Bullshit runs in your family, as well as hard hearing, apparently."

"Shut it!" Bill shouted, standing up quickly, his face red.

His hand immediately moved down to his waist, and Hermione raised an eyebrow. _What is he, an ex-cop? Ex-gang? Someone with quick reflexes who knows where to holster a gun?_

"Gentlemen!" Sirius barked, sitting up fully in his chair. "Calm down, please." The two arguing men grew silent, both glaring daggers at one another, chests heaving. "Now," Sirius said slowly, "you're both going to sit down and continue with this process. Snape, it's a blind audition – and even if Bill did recognize his brother, Ron was obviously the best candidate. So please, shut it and _sit down_."

With that, Sirius leaned back in his chair, his posture still erect and rigid. There was an aura of power around him, and Hermione was thoroughly impressed with how the heir had handled the situation. _Maybe Lupin is right in where to place his affections_, she thought, looking at the timid and wide-eyed Flitwick huddled in his chair. _So much for the awe-inspiring composer._

Harry cleared his throat, bringing everyone in the room back to attention. "If we're finished….?"

He left the question hanging, watching as Bill straightened his tie and sat back down in his chair abruptly. Snape shot one last poisoned glance at the Weasley before striding around the table and taking the seat beside Hermione. she immediately stiffened. _Of all the chairs in all of this room, _she thought bitterly, _you come and sit next to mine._

"Right then," Harry continued, giving Hermione a sympathetic smile. "Next we have Mrs Higgins -"

"E!" everyone shouted in unison, leaning forwards in their chair.

A small smile crept over Harry's face as he surveyed the silent, unanimously agreed room. "Alrighty," he said, opening his barely-closed laptop. "I'm sure that you've all guessed who Contestant E is, but this is an obligatory step in the process…"

With another grin, Harry flipped the screen around so that they all saw the beaming face of Minerva McGonagall. Hermione paused to catch her breath. One of the best actresses of the 20th and 21st century, Minerva had played almost every esteemed role on Broadway, even lifting some roles from mediocre scriptwriting and musical scores into the glorious realm of Tony-Olivier-fame. Hermione had looked up to her as a child, and that love had followed her into adulthood; she had worn out three VHS copies of Minerva's performance in _The King and I_.

She had aged, but her spirit and character lived on. In her photograph she was wrinkled and pale, her half-moon glasses ridiculously thick- and heavy-looking on her fragile nose. Her smile, however, was untouched by time, as bright and as flawless as it had been when she'd first stepped foot into the dusty, neglected London theaters of the post WWII era. Piercing and kind, her blue eyes seemed as if they could stare straight through your soul and see everything about you with a single glance. _And I get to work with her_, Hermione thought, her heart fluttering.

She was jarred out of her thoughts by a stinging pain in her upper arm. Whipping around, Hermione saw Remus' hand lowering back to his side. He shrugged, smiling. "You looked like you needed a pinch," he whispered. Hermione blushed, lowering her gaze to the table.

"Perfect," Snape said lowly, his voice devoid of sarcasm, malice, or distaste. Hermione's eyes flicked sideways, catching the pale, sour man in a rare moment of total honesty and openness. He seemed…relieved. Happy. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, Snape's pleased expression disappeared and his regular mask snapped into place. "It's a miracle to know that you dunces at least cast one role correctly," he sneered.

"Thank you for your input, Severus," Sirius said sharply, giving the moody composer a quick, displeased glance.

"On to Higgins?" Harry asked quickly, shuffling papers and raising an eyebrow.

"Please," Sirius said, nodding. He looked quickly at the clock in the corner, wincing slightly. "As fun as this discussion is, I think I'm discovering the true competitive and…_prolonged_ nature of the theater business."

Hermione snorted, a quick smile fleeting over her features. Sparing a quick smile directed at her, Harry cleared his throat. "All right, so…any preferences?"

"A," Sirius said, eager to jump into the conversation. "I found his singing and his reading impressive."

Hermione's heart sank, fear settling into the pit of her stomach like an anchor dropping to the bottom of the sea, ruthlessly pushing water and life out of its way. Images of Cormac's sickly-sweet smile, his unsettling blue eyes, and his ever-roving hands filled her mind, and Hermione felt like she just might be sick. _I cannot work with him again, _she thought firmly. _I'll go mad._

"I agree," Bill piped up, nodding. "A made quite the impression."

Remus' soft voice loosened Hermione's tense muscles slightly. "I beg to differ," he said politely, smiling at Bill in order to indicate that his words were free of judgement or accusation. "I believe that Candidate C had a better tone than A."

"The one who sang the other song?" Bill asked, incredulous. "How can we even compare him to the others? If he was too haughty to sing the song we assigned, we can't expect him to be a cooperative or enthusiastic performer."

"I don't believe you're right," Hermione said quietly. All eyes in the room focussed on her. "I…I know that he didn't sing the right song, but…" she trailed off. "...but I really think that he _proved _he had enthusiasm for the role by understanding the character's development and attitudes." Remus nodded encouragingly, so she continued; "_Accustomed to her Face_ is sung at the height of Higgins' change, and I feel like he mastered the nuances and emotions in the song perfectly…"

"Miss Granger" – Hermione's spirits rose when she heard the high, wheezy voice of Flitwick – "I must respectfully disagree with you."

_Shit._

"I'm not Frederick Loewe, but I think that Contestant C showed _too _much regret in his rendition of _Accustomed._ Higgins is supposed to regret his actions, but never so boldly or obviously as C did."

"And A didn't do that?" Hermione interjected, colour rising in her cheeks. "Didn't you find his reading over-dramatic? Forced? He seemed like he was trying far too hard to become Higgins whereas with C…it just came naturally!"

"I have to see Flitwick and Bill's reasoning, Mia," Harry said, reluctance obvious in his voice. "I mean, I'd rather work with someone who tried too hard rather than someone who skirts the rules entirely."

"What happened to the concept of open-mindedness?" Hermione blurted, placing her hands on the table and leaning forwards. "What about the value in risk-taking?!"

"There's a time and place for that," Sirius said firmly. "This was not that time."

Frustrated, Hermione leaned back and raked a hand through her already-mussed hair. "I honestly don't see how you could _stand _Contestant A. Genuinely."

"What's your opinion on this, Severus?" Bill's question was filled with barely-masked hostility, his gaze open yet steely. "You've been abnormally quiet. Hell, you haven't shot anyone out of the sky yet."

Snape looked down his oversized nose, raising one eyebrow. "Thank you for that childish comment Mister Weasley," he sneered, his long fingers drumming on the table. "As much as I hate to admit this…I would support Miss Granger and her handler over here."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. _Snape?! Snape agrees with me?! Well, now I know that we're fucked._

"C brought far more to the table than A in terms of character," Snape continued, relatively monotone despite his flashing eyes. "I would highly suggest that those who supported A re-evaluate their position."

"How courteous," Bill said sharply, obviously irritated by Snape's presumptuous manner and persnickety comment.

"Anytime," the musician replied dryly. "Although," he continued, sounding thoughtful and dangerous, "In order to be so vehement in your convictions, you must know Candidate A as well…is he another brother of yours?" Hermione watched Bill's knuckles turn white as he held the edge of the table in a death grip. Snape _had _to drive one final nail into his own coffin, however; "Be sure to say hello to him tonight for me," he said, smirking. "I assume he still lives at home like the rest of you."

"You bloody bastard!" Bill shouted, standing up and causing his chair to go flying backwards and hit the wall. Flitwick flinched beside him, raising his arms over his head. "Do _not _insult my family like that!" the Weasley shouted, his pale skin flushed with anger. "I can take your smart-assed jabs at me, but don't you fucking dare bring my blood into this!"

"But you're _all _involved, aren't you?" Snape said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "Last time I checked, the entire Weasley family were shareholders in Weasley's Works and Wonders."

"Shut the fuck up," Bill said, appearing to be seconds away from shooting steam out of his ears.

Tensions were so high Hermione could have pulled the thick threads of consciousness from the air and knitted a sweater with them. _A big sweater. One that would keep me warm in this damp, disgusting weather. _Hermione watched as Bill panted and Snape brooded, neither one breaking eye contact with each other. Bill opened his mouth, obviously about to say something else, when Harry – mercifully – jumped in. "Gentlemen!" he said, loud and firm. "May we please return to the matter at hand?"

"I'd say this is fairly important," Bill snapped. "He can't expect to just -"

"Regardless," Harry interrupted, furrowing his brow, "We're here to choose a Higgins, and none of us are leaving this room until we do."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that they could come to a collective, satisfying decision in favour of Candidate C. All it would take was some debate, but it would happen.

Four hours later, the lines had been drawn and the room was divided. Flitwick, Bill, and Sirius had spoken enthusiastically in favour of Cormac, Bill's anger and passion fuelling them. Contrarily, Hermione, Lupin, and Severus argued in favour of the mysterious and risk-taking Candidate C. Severus remained cool and collected, the only sign of his lingering anger trapped behind his ever-shifting eyes. Harry remained neutral, constantly tapping his pencil against the table and then erasing the small marks the graphite made.

Remus was speaking again, but by that point the words had all started blurring in Hermione's head. Everything had been said already, but neither side was listening to each other. "Honestly," her manager said, his calm façade cracking slightly, "I would agree with you three and end this, but I just can't do that in good conscience!"

"Why?" Bill asked, throwing his hands up. "A was obviously superior."

"But he wasn't - "

"Fuck this!" Sirius said loudly, kicking his chair back from the table. "I need a bloody smoke," he announced, pulling a package out from the inner-breast-pocket of his blazer. "I'm going outside to smoke for a few minutes, and you tossers are _not _going to stop me."

Looking around, the expression on his face verging on murderous, Sirius nodded and walked out of the room. In the stunned silence following Sirius' departure, Harry's voice sounded freakishly quiet. "Let's take five, guys," he said, the first four words that he'd contributed in four hours.

Sighs erupted from everyone in the room as people stretched and trickled out of the room. Hermione exhaled loudly before dropping her face into her hands. "This is way too complicated," she mumbled into her palms, knowing no one could hear her.

"Hermione," Lupin said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm gonna grab a coffee from around the corner. Did you want a chai tea latte?"

"Yes please," she murmured, not knowing until that moment that she really, _really _wanted a chai tea latte.

Remus gave her shoulder a quick pat before withdrawing his hand and exiting the room, his footfalls slowly fading away. "So, you're still drinking those?" Harry asked, his voice echoing around the room.

Raising her head from her hands, Hermione gave Harry a small smile. "What else would I drink?" she asked lightheartedly.

A wave of nausea rolled over her, and Hermione groaned as she felt a major headache coming on. Irritated, she rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry this is so difficult," Harry said, looking down at his still-tapping pencil. "But…one of you has to change your minds. I was hoping…maybe you could be the bigger person in all this?"

"I can't," Hermione whispered, closing her eyes.

"Why?" Harry asked, confusion and exasperation obvious in his voice. "I mean, it won't hurt your pride, and A wasn't that horrible in my opinion…."

A dagger of guilt twisted in Hermione's stomach and she winced again. "I can't," she repeated, eyes still firmly shut. "A…A….I know who A is."

Silence greeted Hermione's announcement, and without looking up she could picture Harry's startled expression. "…what's so bad about A?" he asked, his voice low.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Hermione said quickly, dropping her head lightly onto the table. "I don't want to bias anyone."

"Hermione, what's wrong with A?" Harry's voice was firm, and she could tell that he'd switched from Harry her Friend to Harry Potter the Director.

After a moment of thought, Hermione decided to tell him the truth. "A is Cormac McLaggen," she said simply, her shoulder sagging.

"…McLaggen?" Harry seemed shocked. "I…I didn't recognize…"

Hermione had to talk. The truth that she'd kept silent for hours was pushing against her skin, dying to be released. "If we chose Cormac, the show will do fine," she said, bluntly honest. "He'll be a fine –if overdramatic – Higgins, he'll play to fine reviews, and we'll have a good run. Maybe not award-winning, and maybe not _fantastic_, but it'll be good." Sitting up, Hermione met Harry's wide eyes with her bleary, emotionally exhausted ones. "But I won't be a part of it," she said, determined. "If we walk out of here and pick Candidate A, I _cannot _work with that bastard. He is a lecherous, disgusting, adulterous flirt, and I will not tolerate his licentious and disgusting personality within one-hundred meters of my person."

"I – Hermione…" Harry trailed off, his voice pleading.

It made her heart twist painfully, but Hermione stood her ground. "You pick A, you lose me," she said.

There were several moments of suspended silence, but the time passed without either party speaking. A loud voice broke the quiet. "I come bearing life!" Lupin cried, kicking open the door with his foot, a coffee-cup in either hand.

Hermione smiled gently. Standing up and walking over to her manager, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks Remus, you're a life saver."

"We won't give up, you know," Lupin whispered, his lips millimeters away from Hermione's ear. "If I have anything to say about it, you'll never have to work with that blonde moron again…even if we have to argue overnight."

Gratitude and love filling her heart, Hermione smiled and squeezed Lupin's free hand with hers. "Thanks," she whispered, leading him back towards their side of the battlefield.

After Remus sat down beside Hermione, Sirius, Severus, Bill, and Flitwick all filtered in. Everyone looked slightly less drawn than before, but still exhausted. It was clear that people just wanted to go home.

Before anyone could say anything, however, Harry spoke up. "Alright," he said loudly, "I've come to a decision."

The room seemed to hold its breath, all eyes focussed on the frazzled, frizzy-haired director.

Harry took a deep breath before continuing. "We're going with C," he said firmly, his eyes locked on the wall behind everyone's heads. A few angry murmurs came from Flitwick, Bill, and Sirius' direction, but Harry held up his hand. "Although he may be a rule-breaker, A's attitude is too authoritative for my liking. I'm employing the "Director's Veto" so that we can all go home and go to bed." He met the tired eyes of the exhausted judges, lingering a moment later on Hermione. "I, for one, would really like to get home to my wife."

"What's his name?" Snape asked, his voice flat.

"…what?" Harry seemed bewildered, his eyes wide.

"His name, you buffoon," Snape snapped. "The name of the invisible man that I've been defending with my life for the past half a day!"

"Oh, of course." Flustered, Harry booted up his laptop and scrolled through his email in silence. No one in the room spoke, too tired to even try to fill the space will small-talk or debate.

"…so?" Snape drawled, his sneer marred by the bags under his eyes.

Hermione saw the reflection of an email in Harry's glasses, but was as startled as everyone else when the director broke out into manic giggles. "It's a weird name," he laughed, barely able to draw a full breath in order to speak. "It's gonna look like a fucking typo on the marquee."

As Harry continued to laugh, Hermione could see a storm cloud brewing over Snape's head, obviously irritated by the director's immature behaviour. "What, Mister Potter, _is his name?_!"

Smiling strangely, Harry cleared his throat and dramatically said;

"Ladies and gentlemen, the actor you have selected to play Henry Higgins is named….Draco Malfoy."

_A/N: Tada! Chapter three! Sorry this took so long you guys, but as you can see this one was a monster of a chapter. Also, just as a warning - I've decided to up this fic's rating to M. I've thought about where I really want this plot to go, and it takes us into waters that may be sketchy for a T rating. I'm sorry if this offends any of you, but I think it's for the best. Rest-assured, the M part won't come in for a few more chapters._

And, I promise; Draco will arrive, in the flesh, next chapter! Your patience will soon be rewarded. :) As ever, please R&R my darling readers. I love to hear all of your thoughts about my work and JKR's fabulous characters. Thanks again for sticking with me. ~sneakyslytherin


	4. With a Little Bit of Luck

**Fourteen Weeks to Previews**

Hermione was early. Stupidly early. Partially she was annoyed with herself – she could've sat down and enjoyed her latte, rather than rushing onto the crowded tube – but another part of her was searching for the silver lining. _If I'm early to the studio, _she thought, getting a little excited, _I might be able to meet my Higgins and chat with him before everyone else gets there. That is, if I can figure out who he is without even seeing a picture….it was stupid of Harry not to show me. But I guess we were all exhausted._

Deep down, Hermione knew that it was stupid to assume that she and the Higgins would become fast friends; in show-business, typically one had co-workers, acquaintances, and enemies. The competition was too high, so true work-related friendships were rare. But still…there was something in his voice, in the way that he sang, that really connected with her. Even thinking about his rendition of "Accustomed to her Face" incited a strange fluttering in the realm behind Hermione's stomach.

Jerking herself back into reality with a shake of her head, she pulled the door to the studio open and walked up the stairs a bit quicker than necessary. Promptly, her heart plummeted. Silver, blinking with multicoloured lights, and looking thoroughly formidable, the electronic keypad seemed to mock Hermione from just above the door handle. "Bloody hell," she muttered under her breath, furrowing her brow. _Code, code, what's the damn code? Did Harry tell you? Goddamn it…._

Angry with herself, and now determined to send a strongly-worded text to Harry, Hermione pulled out her cell phone and typed in her passcode vigorously. A touch _too _vigorously. Pressing down on the sensitive phone with too much pressure for her single hand (the one not occupied with the chai tea latte) to take, Hermione could only watch as her phone slipped out of her grip and tumbled down the wooden stairs. Trailing bits of the screen, case, and mechanical innards behind it on each step, Hermione felt a small part of her soul die as the once-beautiful smartphone landed at the base of the stairs in an unusable, thoroughly destroyed heap.

"Fuck!" she shouted, flinging her arms down to her sides. Unfortunately, she'd temporarily forgotten that she was still holding her paper cup, and the chai tea latte was sent to follow the same path as the phone. The frustrated actress immediately felt her mood darken as her life-elixir spread all over the stairs rather than settling in her stomach. Again, shouting to no one in particular, Hermione yelled out; "Brilliant, bloody brilliant. This day is getting off to such a _fantastic _start!"

Feeling very off-kilter – and just a touch petulant and upset – Hermione sat down on the top step of the stairwell and buried her face into her hands. _Maybe, _she thought, her mental voice filled with acid and sarcasm, _if I don't move, I can't screw up anything else. _

Hermione was so self-absorbed in her own temporary misery that she didn't hear the outer door open. She was so out-of-it, in fact, that she didn't know someone else was in the stairwell with her until a male voice echoed around the concrete anteroom.

"Apparently, someone doesn't know that it's common courtesy not to use public places as your rubbish bins," the man said, his voice condescending and somewhat disgusted.

Startled, Hermione looked up quickly. She felt a flush rising to her cheeks as her eyes met the ice blue ones of the man standing at the foot of the stairwell, his very new-looking, white converse just millimeters away from a cooling pool of chai tea latte. "Umm…" she spluttered, lost for words. "I..uhh…I just…dropped stuff," she finished lamely.

Hermione looked the man up and down, her eyes definitely liking what she saw. He was attractive, but not necessarily in the conventional sense of the word; slightly too thin, with bones and features that were atypically angular, the stranger cut an imposing figure in his jeans and dark leather jacket. His almost elven-blonde hair was just long enough to hover at the tops of his eyes and ears, but his mouth seemed set into a rigid sneer. Judging by the small marks on his skin and the creases under his eyes, his face adopted its current malignant stare relatively frequently. A ripple of disquiet settled in Hermione's stomach as she once again made eye contact with the – _somewhat familiar, who is he? _– stranger. There was something off with him; his body language and expression screamed that he was an aloof, arrogant twat, but his eyes…something about his eyes was different.

"Take a picture," the man snapped, shattering the silence. "I assure you, it will last longer."

Hermione felt a small bruise forming on her pride, but she quickly brushed the thought aside. _I did put him into quite the disgusting situation, _she thought, looking at the strange phone-latte soup all over the entryway. "Sorry," she said, her voice warm and apologetic. "I didn't mean to make such a mess."

The man sniffed – actually _sniffed_ – at her, raising a single pale eyebrow. "Whether or not you _meant to_ is irrelevant," he insisted imperiously. "You did, and now you have to clean it up."

A flicker of annoyance passed across Hermione's face, and she was certain that the familiar stranger noticed it. A satisfied sneer settled across his features, and he tilted his head slightly. "What?" he said, his voice falsely high and incredibly condescending. "Did Mummy never teach her little princess any manners?"

Hermione clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her eyes now burning with a combination of unmasked rage and embarrassment. _Arrogant, self-righteous bastard_, she thought murderously. As her glare grew more heated, however, the stranger's smirk just grew wider, his face stretching into an increasingly grotesque Cheshire cat grin.

Fortunately, Hermione was a rather accomplished actress. Bottling up her rage and filing it away for future use – maybe in a Bennet work, or a particularly heated Shakespeare – she closed her eyes and took several calming breaths. When she opened her eyes again, her expression was the epitome of serenity, and she'd managed to even work up a smile. The smirk immediately fell of the stranger's face, and a flicker of confusion passed behind his eyes. _Got you now, asshole_, Hermione thought, allowing herself a little mental victory dance.

"Sorry," she repeated. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you or threaten your bleached, impeccable sneakers." The stranger's brow furrowed as he picked up on Hermione's sarcastic tone, but she quickly moved past her slight and continued talking. "I was just trying to get into the building to grab some paper towel and clean it up" – she gestured behind her to the inner studio door – "but I can't seem to recall the entry code. Do you, by chance, know what it is?"

The stranger stood silently for a moment, his gaze travelling up and down Hermione's body. Uncomfortably self-conscious under his stare, she felt tempted to snap out "take a picture", but kept her tongue in check. She didn't know who this stranger was, and she didn't want to accidentally offend anyone important.

Apparently, the same inhibitions did not apply to the stranger's thought processes. "No," he said quickly, his eyes finally locking with Hermione's startled gaze. "I do not know the code. It's my first day here, and I was relying on _someone else_ to know the code for me."

Looking around with a false concerned expression on her face, Hermione turned back to the stranger and shrugged. "Sorry," she said sweetly. "It's just us, so I guess we're both stuck out here until someone else shows up."

"Brilliant," the blonde said, letting out a harsh laugh. "Stuck in a stairwell with a crazy bitch, what better way to start a new job."

Hermione tilted her head, trapping her rage and keeping her expression relatively neutral. Unfortunately, her temper flared just a little bit. "I wouldn't be so hasty about the 'bitch' bit," she said slowly, her voice falsely pensive.

The stranger laughed again, but it was obviously an empty laugh; devoid of genuine joy, this was closer to a sadistic chuckle. Sighing, Hermione realized that she'd probably just ended up making an enemy.

"You've got nerves of steel," the stranger said, his voice dangerously low.

Hermione shrugged. "Not really," she said simply. "I just can't stand impolite behavior."

"Oh, I was being impolite, was I?"

"Yes, I'd say you were."

"Well, my most _sincere _apologies, Madame." The sarcastic blonde gave a highly over-dramatic and petulant bow towards where Hermione was standing.

"Mademoiselle," Hermione said automatically, narrowing her eyes.

"Advertising your eligibility, are we?" the stranger said, raising his head and his eyebrows simultaneously. "I appreciate your efforts, but I'm not interested. You might want to give it a go with a sack of potatoes – I have it on good authority that he's looking for a soul mate. You seem like his type."

"Screw you," Hermione blurted out, her frustration with the blonde bubbling over.

"Oh, we _are_ a princess, aren't we?" he drawled, leaning against the wall. He made a clicking noise. "We can't even use a big-girl swear. 'Screw you'…isn't that more of a year seven insult?"

"I'm not going to do this with you," Hermione said quickly, barely containing the litany of profanities that were building inside of her skull. "We're probably going to have to work together, and I'd rather not end up murdering you before our first day finishes."

"Well I doubt I'll be working closely with the janitor," the blonde drawled, brushing off imaginary lint from his jacket sleeves.

"Janitor?!" Hermione shouted, her voice raising several octaves.

The stranger just nodded, his hair swishing down into his eyes. "Of course," he said matter-of-factly. "The out-of-style clothes, bad taste in coffee, ancient – now destroyed – cell-phone…even a _lighting technician _makes enough to afford a decent smartphone. Plus, today it's only an 'actors, choreographers, and supplementary staff' rehearsal. Therefore" – he shrugged, smirking – "you must be the janitor."

Hermione took a deep breath, closing her eyes for longer than a typical blink required. "I see," she said coldly. "It appears that I'm at a loss, Sherlock." The stranger's eyebrows shot up again, but Hermione continued. "You know who I am, but I have no idea who you are."

The stranger tilted his head slightly. "Why should a janitor care who I am?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of apprehension underneath the external confidence.

Shrugging, Hermione allowed a small smile to cross her features. "If I'm going to be the janitor here, I'll have to know who the biggest piece of shit is. So far, you're winning by a landslide."

A clatter announced that someone was trying to open the exterior studio door, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief. _That could have been awkward_, she thought, her mind slowing from its upbeat whirring and calculations. At the sight of the perpetually-mussed dark hair of her director, Hermione let out an excited squeak. "Harry!" she called out, causing the director to look up the stairs at her.

"Mia!" he replied, equally enthusiastic, not even appearing to notice the still-silent – and somewhat dazed-looking – stranger at the base of the stairs. Then, after a moment of silence, Harry gave Hermione a puzzled look. "What the bloody hell did you do to my studio?"

She let out a genuine laugh. "I didn't touch the inside, I promise," she said, placing a hand over her heart. "My phone and my latte had…an unfortunate and unplanned confrontation with gravity."

Then it was Harry's turn to laugh. It was only as he turned his head slightly that he noticed the blonde man, hunched over and brooding in the corner behind the opened door. "Oh," Harry said, his voice faltering. "Hello!"

"Good morning," the stranger said quietly, looking up at the director. Hermione noticed as the blonde quickly glanced at Harry's scar; she was sure that Harry noticed it too, but by this point in his life he had to be used to the stares.

"I trust that you two have met?" the director asked, giving Hermione a puzzled look.

"Absolutely," Hermione gushed, smiling at Harry's confused expression. "We've just had a lovely conversation, haven't we?" she asked the stranger, her smile completely ingenuous and sickly sweet.

To her surprise, the stranger straightened up and returned her false smile with an enthusiastic replica. "Definitely," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm and condescension. Hermione took an involuntary step backwards. The man raised a single eyebrow before continuing; "We've had a positively delightful chat while waiting for you, Mister Director."

"Uh…call me Harry."

"Harry," Hermione said quickly, drawing his attention away from the still-smiling man on the landing. "Do you happen to know the code for the door? Neither of us seems to remember it."

Smacking his forehead, Harry winced. "Sorry," he apologized, navigating the mess of latte and dead phone to get to the upper landing. "I should've sent you the code last night, it just totally slipped my mind."

"No worries," Hermione assured him, watching as Harry typed in the numbers 7-1-3. "How was Arthur's birthday?" she asked, knowing that the director would have attended the party for his father-in-law.

"Great," Harry said effusively, opening the door and letting Hermione pass through. "I had a _wicked _hangover the day after, though. That family can really drink anyone under the table…"

To Hermione's immense satisfaction, she noticed that the extremely confused-looking stranger was trying to navigate the treacherous stairs and make it into the inner studio before the door closed. As Hermione turned forwards again, a huge smirk on her face, Harry quickly whispered, "What happened with you two? I have _never _heard you talk like that to anyone…well, except Dolores."

Hermione shuddered quickly at the mention of Dolores Umbridge, the most disgusting know-it-all-director in the business. She'd worked for her once, and had vowed to never end up in that desperate of a position again. "Nothing happened," she said, giving Harry an innocent smile. "We just had a chat, I promise."

Looking doubtful, Harry flipped on all of the light switches and illuminated the studio with the off-yellow fluorescent bulbs. "Did you want to borrow my phone?" he called out, moving into a door on the left. "Remus is probably worrying about you."

"He can wait," she replied, finding a comfy rolling chair and sitting down into it with a content sigh.

"But Hermione," Harry said, poking his head back into the main room, "don't you want another chai tea latte? You know how grumpy you get without your caffeine…I don't like to work with you when you're grumpy."

Waving her hand, Hermione shook her head. "I'm weaning myself off caffeine," she said facetiously. "It's my New Year's Resolution."

Harry let out a particularly uncouth guffaw as he went back into the out-of-sight room. "Yeah, right. And I'm a wizard."

"Wait…" the voice of the stranger echoed through the now almost-empty main room. "Did he…did he say that your name is Hermione?"

_Oh, this is going to be fun. _"Yes," she replied, innocently.

"Hermione _Granger_?"

"The one and only, as far as I know. It's a weird name, I wouldn't expect anyone else to have it."

The stranger ran a hand through his hair and sighed, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "Fuck," he muttered, closing his eyes.

"Is there a problem?" Hermione asked, smiling just a little bit.

"Nope," the stranger said, completely dead-pan. He then let out a short, dishonest laugh. "Janitor," he mumbled, looking back down at Hermione. "I was a little off."

"Slightly," she admitted, leaning back in her chair. "Your seven percent solution needs a bit of work."

"Well, my name is definitely not Sherlock Holmes," he replied dryly.

"Then what is it?"

"What's what?"

"Your name."

"My name?"

"Yes. As far as I know, everyone has one." Hermione sighed, a bit frustrated at how frazzled the stranger seemed.

"Uh, Malfoy," he said, clearing his throat and taking a step towards Hermione. With a single, fluid, practiced motion, he extended his hand. "Draco Malfoy."

Hermione's heart plummeted from the top of Mount Everest to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. "Malfoy?" she said quietly, just staring at his face and ignoring the proffered hand. "Draco Malfoy?"

"The one and only," he said, throwing her own words back in her face. Noticing Hermione's flush and scattered behavior, a smirk crawled onto his face like a particularly malignant insect. "Not what you were expecting?" he asked, holding his arms out to either side and spinning in a circle.

"Not exactly," she croaked. Hermione's mind was in chaos. How could this snarky, arrogant bastard be her Higgins? The owner of that gorgeous voice?! This had to be a trick, a prank…there's no way that something so beautiful could come out of someone with such a disgusting personality. It defied the laws of physics.

"Well," Draco's voice interrupted the maelstrom in her mind, "to be honest you're not really what I expected either."

"…oh?"

"Not at all." Taking a step back, Draco looked at Hermione's shocked figure once more. "I expected you to be taller, thinner – larger than life, if you will. I assumed that someone who'd been gracing the London stage since she was sixteen would _look it_."

Rage was starting to replace the shock. "And what, pray tell, do I look like?" Hermione asked, keeping her voice relatively steady.

A smile spread slowly over Draco's face again, and Hermione promptly decided that this blonde was the spawn of Satan. He had to be, how else could he get his smile that unnaturally wide and evil-looking?

"You look like a janitor," he said, inclining his head.

"Well played," Hermione said dryly, rolling her eyes. "So clever."

Draco's smirk turned into something closer to a relatively genuine smile. "You wish you were as clever as me," he said, and she hoped he was joking. Unfortunately, his expression implied that he was completely serious.

"Isn't there a line from _Peter Pan_ like that?" Hermione asked, staring into the space beside Draco's head. "Like, "Oh the cleverness of me", or some such nonsense?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar," Draco said warily.

Hermione smiled, focusing on the very still actor. "So, you share the same self-regard and opinions as an immortal nine-year-old child. Congratulations."

The blonde raised a single blonde eyebrow. "Well played," he said flatly.

"We seem to be repeating one another relatively frequently," Hermione noted, tilting her head. "Could it be that it's our first day of rehearsals and we've already exhausted all topics of conversation?"

"It seems so," Draco said. "But that's definitely not _my _fault. I happen to be an endless well of sociability and wit."

She still couldn't tell if he was joking. Luckily, she was saved by someone hammering on the outside of the locked and alarmed rehearsal door. Muffled shouting carried across the thick wood; "Someone open the bloody door! Oi, I see the lights are on, there had better be someone in here. And what the _fuck _is on the stairs?!"

Smiling, Hermione jumped out of her chair, breezed by the still-smirking Malfoy, and opened the door. "Ron!" she cried out, giving the red-faced ginger a hug.

"Heya, Monkey!" the second-youngest Weasley replied, returning the hug and going one further by spinning Hermione into the room. "How're you? I haven't seen you in bloody ages!"

"I'm just fine, thanks," Hermione replied, tucking her now-frazzled hair behind one ear and taking a small step back. "How are you? And how's Lillian!?"

"We're both brilliant, thanks," he replied, his eyes taking on a particular sparkle at the mention of his beautiful wife. Leaning in slightly and lowering his voice, Ron said, "Don't spread it 'round too much, but Lillian's expecting."

Hermione clapped her hands together before promptly running up to give Ron another hug. "That's so exciting!" she squeaked, ignoring the stabs of pain and twist of jealously in her stomach. Ron, the young man who'd been mooning after her all those years ago, was going home to a loving, pregnant wife and a happy, busy house. She, on the other hand, knew that all she could expect was an empty flat, an espresso and Doctor Who. Not that Doctor Who was bad…it was just lonely.

"Congratulations, Ronald," a different male voice said, and Hermione quickly stepped out of Ron's friendly embrace.

The red-head immediately stiffened, his eyes jumping to where Draco stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk glued to his face. "Malfoy," Ron said stiffly, his eyes darkening. "What a pleasure to be working with you again."

"Likewise, Rudolph, likewise."

Hermione winced as she heard Ron's knuckles crack, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. "It's Ron or Ronald, Malfoy," he said through gritted teeth. "I am not a bloody reindeer."

Draco waved a dismissive hand in Ron's general direction. "If you insist," he said.

"Who are you?" Ron asked, his voice unusually sharp and angry. Hermione had the sudden impulse to step out of the line of fire between the two men.

"Why Ron-or-Ronald, I'd have thought you'd know my name by now," Draco drawled, sprawling into the chair that Hermione had just vacated.

"You know what I mean, Lizard," Ron spat.

Draco twirled a lazy finger across the hard plastic arms of the chair, his eyes never leaving Ron's terrifying gaze. "Phrase your sentences properly, Ramekin."

"What. Character. Do. You. Play. You. Bastard." Ron took great care to over-enunciate his words, each one aimed like a verbal dagger at the arrogant blonde's face.

"Ah, I see!" he said, clapping his hands together in feigned enlightenment. "What a wonder the English language can be if used properly, if in a mildly profane manner. I have the privilege of playing Mister Henry Higgins. And you?"

"Higgins?" Ron said, the shock obvious in his voice. His gaze switched to Hermione. "You gave _this _sod the role of _Higgins_?"

"It was a blind audition," Hermione said bluntly. "Had we seen his face, he would have been immediately disqualified."

Ron let out a quick laugh, while Draco sent a poisonous glare in Hermione's direction. She adopted her – now, apparently, trademark – sickly sweet smile. "Who, pray tell, are _you _playing, Ron-or-Ronald?" Draco asked, his voice flat.

"I'm Mister Doolittle," Ron said, pulling Hermione towards him and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "I have the honour of being this gorgeous young siren's father."

"Oh, but that's hardly fair!" Draco exclaimed, his expression switching to one of exaggerated concern. Ron and Hermione shared a puzzled look before the blonde continued. "If you play Mister Doolittle, how could anyone say that you're acting? Aren't you just…playing yourself?"

Hermione winced. Ron could take a lot of insults, but there was a line. Mister Doolittle was a scheming, poor, ridiculous, and – overall – incredibly dim-witted character. The one thing that Ron was incredibly sensitive about was his lack of education; he'd never graduated high school, let alone attended some fancy post-secondary drama institution. Whenever anyone brought up his supposed lack of intelligence, you could watch as his anger flowed from his brain into his fists and into the face of whoever dared to belittle the man's wits.

Once again, Hermione was saved from having to say anything by a knock at the door. "Harry really needs to send out the code," she said, hoping her overly cheerful voice might help to cut through the tension that was creating an almost-visible fog in the air. Scurrying over to the door, Hermione was relieved to see another familiar face. "Neville!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "It's so fantastic to see you!"

"Likewise, m'lady," the young man said, taking her hand and giving her a very deep bow. When Neville brought his head up again, a massive grin had transformed his potentially long, somber face into a radiant visage. His hair had been cut recently, relatively close to his head – _a bit too close, _Hermione thought – but he looked extremely healthy and tanned. Despite his thick turtleneck, dark jeans, and the bright red mittens covering both of his hands, Neville appeared to be shivering from the cold weather outside. "Hermione," he said, his voice sounding a bit apprehensive. "…do I want to know what's on the stairs?"

She laughed, grabbing one of Neville's mitten-clad hands and dragging him into the heated room. "It's the unfortunate remains of my latte and phone," she said, sighing dramatically and smiling. "They met an untimely demise-"

Hermione was cut off as Draco snapped "Who are you?" staring at Neville and momentarily ignoring Ron.

"Oh…um…Neville Longbottom," Neville stuttered, his eyes widening slightly at the stranger's uncouth behavior.

Draco gave a snort and rolled his eyes. "I suppose you must be Freddie, then?"

Clearing his throat and standing up straighter, Neville gave the blonde a genuine smile. "Yes," he said confidently.

"Brilliant. Introductions finished, we can officially skip all other social interactions."

Neville cleared his throat, his smile faltering. "Hello Ron," he said, turning slightly to face the ginger.

A clipped "morning" was his sole reply.

An awkward silence settled back over the room as Draco resumed his staring contest with an increasingly upset Ron, while Neville and Hermione stood awkwardly to one side. "Did you want a hand cleaning up your mess in the hall?" Neville asked, looking apprehensively at the two – still silent, still glaring – men in the room.

After a moment's hesitation, Hermione decided that she didn't want to witness a murder. "Sure, thanks," she said, grabbing a bunch of Kleenex off of the reception desk. As soon as the door closed behind them, shutting off the tense confrontation, Hermione gave Neville a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for rescuing me," she whispered.

"No worries," Neville said at full volume; obviously, he didn't think whispering was necessary. "What's up with those two? It's like the Frost and Nixon interview in there."

"The blonde one had the audacity – or stupidity, I'm not sure which – to call Ron stupid."

"Oh. Not good."

"Yeah, not good."

Neville rubbed a tired hand up and down his face. "Does the soon-to-be-deceased stranger have a name?" he sighed, his eyes closed.

"The blonde is Draco Malfoy," Hermione supplied, handing the helpful young man half of her fistful of tissues before walking down the stairs. "I'd never heard of him before, but he had a wicked audition. Now that I actually talk to him…"

"He seems like a git," Neville suggested, kneeling down on the top landing and dabbing at the messy liquid.

"Basically, yeah," Hermione agreed, finishing the bottom landing and stuffing her soaked tissues into the tragically empty coffee cup.

"That's too bad," Neville said, regret obvious in his voice. "I was so hoping that we'd have a positive work environment for this one. I mean, you and Ron are fantastic…I was hoping…."

"Me too," Hermione finished for him, shooting Neville a quick smile. "I had such high hopes for my Higgins, his voice was so gorgeous…"

"The Malfoy character is _Higgins_?" Neville cried out, obviously upset.

"Unfortunately," Hermione confirmed.

Having paused his clean-up, Neville sat down on a dry step and slumped over. "Well," he said, his voice flat, "this should be fun."

Hermione finished up the final step and extended her tissue-cup up towards where Neville was slumped. Grateful, he placed his impromptu-dishrags into the cup and smiled at Hermione. For a second she felt a twist of guilt in her soul. It was _her _who gave Harry the ultimatum, who insisted that she needed to work with this Draco person. It was her fault that they were all going to have to deal with this male prima donna for the next several months of their lives. _Maybe Cormac would've been better_, she thought for a moment. Quickly, the images of his lecherous smiles and suggestive, poorly masked advances flashed through her mind. _No, _she thought firmly. _This is right. This was the right choice._

"We probably shouldn't be so quick to judge him, you know," she said slowly. "I mean, we've known him for what, five minutes?"

Neville's smile grew larger, and he ruffled Hermione's hair. "Always the undying optimist, eh?" he chuckled.

Shrugging, Hermione said, "I do what I can."

Neville stood up, cracking what sounded like every single joint in his body as he did so. The sickening 'pops' made it difficult for Hermione not to wince, but she still accepted the young man's proffered hand to help herself up. "We'll give it a whirl," Neville said, confident. "I mean, he can't be all that bad, can he? With a bit of luck, he might actually turn out to be quite the charmer."

~~~~~~HGDM~~~~~~~

Hermione had decided that Draco Malfoy was just about as charming as a rattlesnake; mesmerizing and beautiful to watch from afar, but terrifying as soon as its ebony gaze is turned on you.

After Hermione and Neville finished cleaning up the disaster on the stairs, they'd returned to the anteroom to find Harry desperately attempting to mediate a confrontation between Ron and Draco. From Hermione's perspective, it seemed to consist mostly of Ron shouting and Draco smirking. Gradually, however, people started to file in and the atmosphere became less tense.

Crawley Rehearsal Hall had turned into a veritable "Who's Who" of British Theater. Shortly after Hermione, Draco, Neville, and Harry had arrived, the principle choreographer had waltzed in. Fleur Delacour, a native of England with decidedly French parents, was one of the most prestigious and inspiring dance captains and choreographers in the business. She had West-End works like _Matlida_, _Dirty Dancing_, and _Cats_ under her belt, as well as rumoured contributions to recent dance-movie sensations. Hermione had immediately felt self-conscious in the gorgeous blonde's presence; even dressed in athletic capris and a tight-fitting dance halter-top, Fleur managed to look breathtakingly stunning. Pulling her trenchcoat closer around herself, Hermione focused on her shoes as the dancer circled the room with hugs and heavily-perfumed kisses. The only male in the room who did not appear to be completely entranced by Fleur was Draco Malfoy, who looked ridiculously bored whilst receiving a kiss on the cheek from the choreographer. _Gay_, Hermione thought to herself, shaking her head. _Or insane. That's always an option._

Closely on Fleur's heels was Remus, accompanied by Flitwick. Hermione had no idea how the two had met up, and merely greeted her close friend and acquaintance with a smile. Skipping her and Harry, the two introduced and re-introduced themselves to the other occupants of the room. Fleur was particularly excited to make the acquaintance of Flitwick, stating that, "I 'ave done zo much of ze dance to your music! Ah, _c'est magnifique!_"

"Everything sounds so persnickety in French," Hermione mumbled to herself.

"Pardon?" Neville asked, breaking eye contact with Fleur for the first time since she'd entered the room."

"Nothing," Hermione grumbled, frowning as Neville's gaze reverted to its original target.

Next to arrive was a figure that Hermione only knew from the one photograph that she'd seen of him; Theodore Nott, the production's Colonel Pickering, entered the room in silence. Relatively tall, with dark features, Theodore gave off a generally brooding aura. Of course, after exchanging virtually monosyllabic greetings with everyone in the room, Theodore and Draco managed to strike up a conversation about something or other. _Of course_, Hermione thought icily. _The two sociopaths are bonding. Brilliant._

Another member of the Draco Malfoy fan club arrived next, going by the name of Blaise Zabini. As Draco's manager, he had to actually be the head of the 'We Love Draco' society, and was soon chatting animatedly with Harry, Theo, and his client. Hermione didn't like the look of the dark-skinned, shifty-eyed manager, thinking that his suit was far too upmarket for someone who acted strictly as a legal party for a paltry theater worker. There had to be something illegal going on there. But she kept her opinions to herself, narrowing her eyes as Draco laughed at whatever Mr Zabini had said.

Finally, Minerva McGonagall limped her way into the rehearsal hall. Looking positively regal in her oversized jacket, blackwatch-tartan skirt, silver hair pulled up into a bun - accented with her essential yet stylish ebony cane - she brought with her an air of grace and youth that defied the lines on her face. The room grew silent momentarily, then erupted into applause and shouts of praise. McGonagall blushed, waving off the attention with embarrassed flicks of her wrist. As soon as the room quieted slightly, Harry cleared his throat.

"Alright everyone," he said, clapping his hands together. "This…well, this is it!" There was a smattering of applause, and Lupin wolf-whistled enthusiastically. Harry grinned roguishly before continuing. "So, _My Fair Lady _opens for previews in fourteen weeks. Right now it's February 18th, and we're moving into the theater on April 29th – so, a ten-week rough-rehearsal-period. On May 20th we open for previews, and we officially open on June 3rd in the Theater Royal, Drury Lane".

"That's not a lot of time," Theodore Nott said, his voice virtually emotionless.

Harry nodded. "I know," he replied, his voice firm, "but that's the time we have to work with. No delays, no mishaps, and no conflicts." Harry shot a venomous look at where Ron was standing, watching his ears go red, before turning his gaze on Malfoy. The blonde seemed unaffected by his director's unhappiness, and proceeded to pick imaginary pieces of lint off of his jacket.

"Ah, will we be receiving of ze schedules today?" Fleur asked, tilting her head. "I would like to know when I am supposed to be 'ere, and when I am not needed."

"Yes!" Harry said, smiling enthusiastically at the choreographer. Hermione scowled. Harry was slightly less-affected than the other men by Fleur's charm – a fact that she attributed to Ginny, bless her heart – but was still a bit too happy and bubbly when he looked at her.

Fleur obviously sensed Hermione watching her, for she turned around and met the embarrassed witch's penetrating gaze. To Hermione's immense relief, Fleur just gave her a smile and small nod before turning back to where Harry was rummaging in his briefcase.

"Here we are!" He cried out triumphantly, pulling a thick sheaf of papers out from somewhere within his cavernous bag. Walking around the informal congregation, Harry handed every single person a detailed schedule and a coil-bound script. "It's organized by initials of the characters, what type of work you'll be doing, and the scenes we're focusing on for that day," Harry supplied, holding his own copy of the schedule.

"So," Neville started, slowly, "if it says FE, ED, Act II, scene vi, V…"

Harry flipped through his script before answering, "That's you and Hermione rehearsing the vocals for "Show Me"." The room was silent, and Ron looked thoroughly red and confused. Harry sighed. "FE and ED stands for Freddie Einsford-Hill and Eliza Doolittle – you and Hermione, Neville – while Act II scene vi references the scene where the song "Show Me" is sung. The capital "V" at the end indicates that you'll be working vocals, as opposed to a "C" for choreography, "S" for script, or "E" for just running the scene top to bottom with everything."

"Well," Draco said dryly, his voice breaking the silence that followed Harry's words, "at least we'll all improve our skills at cryptography."

The only person to laugh was Fleur, her tinkling giggle feeling strained and awkward. No one knew how to deal with the snarky, sassy blonde, and so far no one was going out of their way to do anything but glare at him. In the course of fifteen minutes, Draco had managed to make almost everyone in the rehearsal room his enemy. Hermione sighed. "So today's just a general read-through?" she asked, changing the topic and trying to diffuse the tension.

"Yes," Harry affirmed, his tone relieved. "So, if you'd all just follow me….?"

_And so we go, _Hermione thought, following Harry into a brightly lit room filled with enough simple chairs for the principle cast to use. After some shuffling and adjustments, Hermione found herself sitting next to Draco Malfoy. She shot him a genuine smile, only to have him curl his lip at her and then look away. Hermione's heart sank.

_This is going to be a very long show_, she thought, opening her script.

Lupin cleared his throat, smiling. He'd offered to read the stage directions, so he was reading the opening of every scene. "Act I, scene i," he said, his voice clear and resonating. "Stage is set as a dark, early-morning Covent Garden. At first, no one is onstage. Then, slowly, with every chime of the seven-o'clock-bell, more and more actors fill the stage and freeze. After the final charm, activity begins. Eliza enters, dressed in relative rags and carrying a wicker basket filled with flowers. She is run over by an aristocratic woman in a rush."

"Look where you're goin' dear, look where you're goin'!" Hermione said, her voice taking on Eliza's trademark lower class accent.

_It's officially started_, she thought, feeling a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Sparing a quick glance at Draco, Hermione shook her head. _I'm not going to let him ruin this for me, _she thought, determined. _This is my role, my chance, and __**my life**__. Draco Malfoy can go die in a bloody hole._

A/N: Here's Chapter Four! Sorry that this is mostly a transition chapter, but we did get to meet Draco! Huzzah! :) :) ;)  
My sincere apologies for not updating in a while. I was on spring break vacation for two weeks, and now have way too much work to do. Rest assured, the story is still going strong! Please bear with me. :):)  
And, as always, please R&R and Favourite/Follow this story. Your words and alerts mean so much to me, and might help to brighten me up in the middle of this lovely Canadian April snowstorm. All the best to all of you! :)  
~sneakyslytherin


	5. I'm an Ordinary Man

When met in person, idols tend to lose the surreal, awe-inspiring glow that used to surround them. Their every word stops sounding like prose, their actions don't all seem _quite _so graceful, and their logic doesn't seem as earth-shatteringly sound.

Hermione, however, proved the exception to the rule; the show was fourteen weeks to opening, and she was still hanging on Flitwick's every syllable, watching the tiny composer, feeling grateful to breathe the same air as him.

It's also said that one comes to respect and cooperate with one's coworkers over time, gradually adapting so that they're more compatible when placed in the same environment. Kind-of like a chameleon affect, they'll change slightly to minimize the friction and stress in their life.

Hermione defied this concept too.

Every night, after watching Doctor Who but before she went to bed, Hermione would go over her lines for the scene they were working the next day. Curled up on her couch, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and yoga pants – _it's not as if anyone's going to come over anyways_, _why can't I just be comfortable?_ – she'd read through the scenes and picture them in her mind. Just to make herself feel better, she'd picture Draco screwing up.

She'd say, "I'll go into teaching!"

Then, instead of replying with his proper line and saying "Oh? And teach _what_, exactly?", Draco would stutter, forget what he was doing, and call out "Line!"

Harry would come on-stage and chastise him, and Hermione would smile and watch as that greasy smirk slipped all the way off his face and pooled onto the floor where she could drag a bulldozer over it. Many times.

_Arrogant prick._

Unfortunately, however, no matter how hard she wished, Hermione's fantasies never seemed to come true. Asides from being completely impossible to talk to, stand next to, or breathe simultaneously with, Draco was a very professional worker. If one ignored the snarky comments and the potentially hurtful jabs that the blonde frequently made, one would probably say that he was the best actor in the building. So far they were only in very basic run-throughs, working mainly on blocking, choreography, and singing, but Draco had proved himself to be a fantastic Higgins. He was aloof and pernickety when it was called for – _he's hardly even acting_, Hermione would think as she watched him strut around – but he also managed to be thoughtful and thoroughly dejected in other scenes.

When he was in character, Hermione found Draco easy to be around…almost pleasant, even. Meeting those grey-blue eyes, Hermione could see genuine emotion and sincerity that made her think for just a second that her co-worker might be a normal, flawed, kind human being. As soon as Harry shouted "cut", however, or the piano player lifted their fingers from the keys, that sneer would be back on his face and she would have an irrational desire to run for the hills.

For someone as logical as Hermione, Draco Malfoy was thoroughly confusing.

Rehearsing at 8 o'clock in the morning on a Monday seemed particularly stupid to Hermione, especially when it was taken into account that it was a vocal mini-workshop with Flitwick. Singing meant no milk products. No milk products meant no chai tea latte. No chai tea latte meant that Hermione was grumpy. Very grumpy.

When Hermione entered the wood-paneled vocal room, she saw that Draco was already there and was sitting down at the large, black grand piano that was placed in the middle of the room. Seeing his satisfied smirk and stupid face just made Hermione even more upset with her life and her morning. "Well," Draco said, watching her storm into the room and throw her shoulder bag into an undignified heap by the blonde's seat in front of the keys. "Aren't you perky this morning?"

"Shut up," Hermione snapped, brushing her hair out of her eyes and trying to pull it back into a semblance of a ponytail. She'd left the house in a rush, and hadn't had time to deal with her appearance.

"It's not going to work you know," Draco drawled, looking intently at the cuticles of his fingernails.

She was really not in the mood to put up with any of Draco's antics today – _particularly not this early in the bloody morning – _but Hermione rolled her eyes and looked up at Draco. "Fine, I'll bite. What's not going to work?" she snapped, twisting her elastic and trying to pull her ponytail through the overworked-loop one last time.

"Trying to fix your hair," he said flatly, extending his left pointer finger and letting a single note from the piano echo through the mostly-empty room. "It's beyond repair anyways."

Hermione sighed. Draco always seemed to mock her hair, which was a sensitive area for her. Nothing she did ever seemed to tame it, and the blonde seemed to be able to sense her frustration and her weakness. _He's like a shark, _she thought, narrowing her eyes. _He can smell my insecurity. _

"Thanks for the input, Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice monotone. "I'll keep that in mind."

The blonde gave Hermione a sickly-sweet smirk before looking down at the piano. Positioning his fingers meticulously, he let a single chord fill the room and echo off the sound-proofed walls. Hermione let out an overly-loud sigh and pulled her script out from her crumpled bag, looking for something to occupy her thoughts until Flitwick arrived.

At first Malfoy just played single, unrelated chords, not bothering Hermione all too much. Unfortunately, he obviously couldn't last long in life without bothering _someone_, especially Hermione, so he started to string the chords together in a somewhat recognizable fashion. Wincing, Hermione recognized the tune as "All I Ask of You", the love song from _The Phantom of the Opera_ that her character, Christine, had to sing with Raoul…Cormac's character.

Even all these weeks later, the duet left a sour ring inside of her ears. _I'm going to live the rest of my life associating this beautiful song with that ass, _she thought, depressed but resigned to her fate. When it appeared as though Draco was intending to play the entire bloody song, Hermione sighed again. _This won't do._

Without even so much as a "budge over", Hermione planted herself on the stool next to Draco. The blonde raised a single eyebrow, but didn't look up from the ebony and ivory keys that were lovingly pressed and released under his pale, slender fingers. For several moments Hermione just watched the music dance off his fingertips.

Then, she sensed her moment of opportunity.

Using the bridge to her advantage, Hermione played the same chord as Draco – an octave up, of course – and used that chord as the beginning of a different song. Not watching her own fingers, Hermione smiled slightly as Draco's hands froze, fingers poised just above the keys. Now, instead of "All I Ask of You", the chords that made up "As Long as You're Mine" from _Wicked_ echoed through the rehearsal room, the warm tones reverberating off the panelling and spiralling through space until they coiled up on themselves and disappeared.

To her surprise, Draco lowered his fingers lightly to the edges of the keys, his touch too hesitant to draw any sound from the instrument. Continuing to play, Hermione could hardly breathe as she watched his twitching, stick-thin fingers. _Will he tell me to stop? _she wondered, a bit panicked. _Will he just walk away, leaving me sitting here awkwardly? _She didn't know why she felt a tug of disappointment at that thought.

Then, just as Hermione transitioned from the chorus back into the verse, Draco played the same chord. She froze, her eyes glued to her motionless hands on the keyboard, but after a painful, pregnant moment, Hermione just about broke into a grin. Malfoy had used the chord to transition into an entirely different kind of song, and was now playing a jazzy, upbeat version of "Luck Be a Lady" from _Guys and Dolls_.

_The game is afoot, _she thought happily, placing her fingers lightly on the keys and thinking about the chord progressions in the song, trying to think of a different song and how to best time her entrance. With a dramatic flourish, Hermione switched the song to "Seize the Day" from the relatively recently-released Broadway musical, _Newsies_.

_Beat that, Malfoy_, she thought, smugly thinking that the blonde wouldn't recognize the non-classic musical or its soundtrack. _It'll really trip him up if he doesn't know where the song is going…he'll just be guessing at where he can come in._

But, Hermione's inner gloating was soon silenced; with a particularly forceful "G" chord, Draco switched into a different, slower song. Panicking, Hermione realized that she didn't recognize the initial tune. _…he's good, _she grudgingly admitted, watching the pale fingers dance across the keyboard and listening intently to the myriad of complimentary sounds that they produced.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to focus intently on the actual music itself and not the manner in which the music was created. All the different notes swirled around her mind, a jumble of colours and letters and shapes that hadn't been sorted. As she listened, Hermione sorted; the pinks with blues, the circles far away from triangles, the "f" right next to the "b"….and then, the song title hit her like inspiration.

Leaping into the forefront of her mind, covered in cobwebs but still intact, Hermione saw the name "Moanin' Low" come into being, complete with a tentative set of chords and the name of the musical the song came from. _The Little Show _was one of the most cryptic, old musicals in existence, but obviously Draco appreciated the blues song that became the show's signature act.

_Let's up the ante a bit, shall we Malfoy?_ Hermione thought, actually smiling as she brought her fingers into satisfying contact with the cool, welcoming keys.

Soon, the notes from Natasha Bedingfield's _Unwritten _were coming from the piano, the acoustic version very slow and haunting. Hermione might have been imagining things, but she could've sworn that she heard Draco mutter, "Cheating," in a tone that was almost…playful. Hermione really didn't need to watch the keys as she played, but she kept her eyes glued on the keys before her. She just knew that she couldn't look up and risk that Malfoy was looking up too. That'd make things awkward. _Draco probably didn't need to look down when he played either_, she thought, allowing herself an internal grin.

The blonde came in, taking over the piano and switching to the song "Perfect" by Hedley, another non-Broadway song that was beautiful on the piano. Still somewhat shocked by the fact that Draco hadn't just gotten up and walked away when she'd sat down, Hermione dared to look up and glance at the actor's face. What she saw genuinely surprised her, sending a tingle up her spine and making her heart beat just a touch faster. She became extremely aware of the precious few inches where her jeans were touching his, believing that she could feel the heat radiating from him and into her.

Draco's eyes were staring at the keys, firmly not making eye contact with Hermione, but his expression was entirely open. Rather than his typical aloof and arrogant expression, Draco's face was relaxed and loose. His lips were slightly parted, allowing for him to gently bite his bottom lip as he played, the notes spiralling out from under his fingers. His hair should've been annoying him, as it had fallen into his eyes, but Hermione doubted that he even noticed; he was too wrapped up in the music. The most breathtaking aspects of Draco's pose, however, were his eyes. Instead of being slate-grey and distant, filled with contempt and skepticism, they were open, unshuttered, and almost painfully genuine in their honest excitement.

They looked exactly like Draco's eyes looked when he and Hermione had read through one of Higgins' final scenes, where he told Eliza that she looked beautiful – the moment when the audience realizes that the stingy, arrogant professor had truly fallen for his down-to-earth pupil. Hermione's mind was still slowed by her discovery of Draco's vulnerable expression, but in a rush of revelation she had an epiphany;

_What if __**this **__is the real Draco, and he's acting the rest of the time?_

The thought seemed to make such perfect sense with what Hermione was currently witnessing that she immediately assumed it to be truth. She, Hermione Granger, had stumbled upon the true core of Draco Malfoy's being. He wasn't really an arrogant prat – instead, he was a vulnerable, emotionally-unstable young man who pretended to be something that he wasn't.

Just as Hermione had reached the end of her epiphany, thoroughly convinced that this man beside her was not truly as nasty as she had thought, Draco was reaching the end of "Perfect". The final high notes were spilling out from the piano, their lingering sounds echoing off the wooden walls. As Hermione watched, the blonde seemed to pull thick, grey screens in front of his eyes, hardening the lines in his face and pulling his leg away from where it brushed against Hermione's. That disgusting, smug smile reasserted itself on his face, and Malfoy turned to look at the girl beside him. Hermione almost recoiled from the disgust and satisfaction in his eyes, their presence on his face acting almost like a disfigurement.

A flicker of doubt crossed Hermione's mind. _No, _she thought, sighing. _He's not acting. _

"Looks like I won, Granger," he drawled, a lazy smirk crawling across his face like a particularly ugly bug.

Hermione let out a disbelieving laugh. "Won?" she said, incredulous. "I didn't know it was a contest."

"Please," Malfoy scoffed, tilting his head in a supposedly all-knowing manner, "with someone like you _everything _is a competition."

"Someone like me?" Hermione blurted out, flexing her fingers and folding them in her lap to stop them from squeezing around the blonde's neck. "What, exactly -"

Hermione was interrupted by the sound of the rehearsal room door opening noisily. "Sorry I'm late," a small, frail voice called out. "My cabbie – some idiot named Errol – couldn't figure out how to cross the Thames."

"No worries at all, Mister Flitwick," Draco said formally, nearly causing Hermione to fall flat on her face as he pushed back the piano bench to stand.

The composer closed the door and turned around, his face drawn as he returned Malfoy's greeting with a terse nod. Hermione stood up too, shooting Malfoy an angry look. As always, Flitwick was dressed in a button-up shirt, sweater vest, impeccably polished shoes, and trousers that were tailored specifically to his uniquely short legs. Hermione noticed that his sweater vest seemed slightly wrinkled though, and that there were toast crumbs still stuck to his trousers. "Is Alisha still away?" Hermione asked, referring to Flitwick's long-time wife.

Flitwick returned Hermione's smile in full force, obviously far warmer towards the leading lady than he was towards her blonde co-star. "Until Wednesday," the composer said mournfully. "You can't expect me to be on time for anything until after she gets home, I'm afraid. I'm a mess without her."

Hermione laughed, noting smugly that Draco was watching very in an assessing, envious way. He was obviously slightly jealous of her amicable relationship with the world-renowned composer, while his relations with the small man remained formal and frosty. _It's his own fault, _she thought self-righteously, holding her head up a half-degree higher. "What are we working on today?" she asked, already knowing the answer but hoping to keep the composer talking as he bustled over to the piano and ruffled through his binder of sheet music.

"Act one scene five," Draco said brusquely, raising an eyebrow. "I'd have thought you'd be on top of your schedule, Miss Granger."

"But of course, Mister Malfoy," Hermione replied coolly, pushing her rage deep inside of herself to use later. "It's just that Theo isn't here yet, so I was slightly confused."

Just to bother Malfoy, Hermione mirrored the blonde's raised eyebrow. Pride and resentment seemed to crackle in the space between the two performers, neither one giving an inch of sympathy or backing down. "Ah yes," Flitwick said, acting oblivious to the tension in the room. "Where is our dear Mister Nott?"

"…late?" Draco supplied, his voice dripping with barely-concealed sarcasm.

Hermione intensified her glare, tilting her head. Despite the fact that Theodore was on relatively amicable terms with Draco, he'd proved to be a relatively normal human being and had managed to befriend everyone else in the cast; everyone liked Theo, with his charming smile and cavalier attitude towards life. He was proving to be a formidable Colonel Pickering too, and Hermione genuinely liked the small, dark-haired young man. She didn't understand how he could spend any time around Malfoy without permanently losing his mind.

"Well," Flitwick said, sitting down on the piano stool and smiling as he arranged his seemingly endless sheets of music, "good thing Mister Nott doesn't enter until bar 144. Shall we begin?"

Grateful for any reason to break off the heated staring contest with Draco, Hermione looked down at the music on the piano even though she knew this song by heart. "The Rain in Spain" was one of the more upbeat songs in _My Fair Lady, _and was sung just after Eliza managed to speak in 'proper English' for the first time. Filing away her range and animosity to use later, Hermione dug deep inside to find the fresh-faced optimism and relief that Eliza was feeling when she decided to break into song. _By the time this show is done I'll have enough rage stored away to play Henry VII in The Globe. At least three times. _Hermione thought wryly, allowing herself a private smile.

And then the day began in earnest. Draco was usual, snarky self since they were just working on notes and timing rather than character-based influences in the music. Eventually Theo arrived, filled with apologies about demon toasters and busy tube routes, and after very little fuss was forgiven so that he could join in at bar 144.

Gradually, the small meeting dissolved; Draco – mercifully – left to block "Accustomed to Her Face" with Harry, Flitwick had to work with Neville, and Theo…well, Hermione didn't really know what Theo had to do. She went to get her measurements taken by the kind, eccentric costume designer, Luna Lovegood. Apparently she was planning on giving the entire play a steampunk twist, giving it a modern edge without being too farfetched. Hermione approved, immediately taking to the ethereal blonde who seemed to have a passion for conspiracy theories.

When she left the small room that was – at that moment, at least – devoted to costuming, Hermione pulled out her new phone and sighed. Since she couldn't just spontaneously become a hermit, and since Remus was so incredibly anal retentive, Hermione had been rushed to the nearest O2 dealership straight after rehearsals the other day. She was now the reluctant new owner of an iPhone, and was still trying to figure out how to manage all the different features. With minimal hassle, however, she managed to call up Lupin.

"Remus speaking," he said, his voice sounding warm and welcoming even over the soundwaves that somehow connected the two phones.

"Hello Remus Speaking, this is Hermione Speaking."

"Ah, yes, Eliza. What causes you to call, m'lady?"

"I'm on lunch break," Hermione said, quickly double checking the time on her wristwatch again. "Are you anywhere near Crawley Rehearsal Hall?"

"…I could be," he responded, his voice fading as he pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time on the screen. "What's in it for me?"

Hermione laughed, the bad mood that Malfoy had put her in almost completely disappearing. "I'll buy?" she suggested, hoping that Lupin could hear the smile in her voice.

"Free lunch!" he exclaimed, sounding ridiculously excited. "How could I resist? I'll be at Ryan's in 10."

"Thanks, Remus."

"You're the one feeding me."

Hermione was still laughing after she ended the call, and couldn't wipe the smile off her face as she walked down to the little coffee-shop/restaurant at the end of the street. The proprietor of the establishment, Ryan – who named the restaurant after himself – was a kind, quiet man who already knew everyone in the casts' favourite lunch order, coffee, and how they took their tea.

"Remus is joining me for lunch, Ryan," Hermione called out as she entered the restaurant, heading towards a small table for two in the corner.

"I'll put your orders in as soon as he gets here," Ryan promised, giving Hermione a smile and looking up from the glass he was cleaning.

True to Lupin's word, he didn't keep Hermione waiting long. Ten minutes after Hermione sat down and just after Ryan had dropped off a tall glass of iced tea in front of her, Remus walked through the door and headed over to her table with a big smile on his face. Hermione stood up and gave the man a prolonged hug, inhaling his aroma of pine, cinnamon, and earthy smells. He grounded her, tying her spinning emotions down and calming her frenzied mind. Remus was always such a comforting presence for her, and by this point she had no idea how she'd cope if he ever left her.

_I'd go crazy_, she thought, closing her eyes and leaning her head against his chest for a moment.

"So," Remus said, pulling out Hermione's chair and then moving towards his seat. Suddenly he looked very serious. "Why the call? What's wrong?"

"…can't I just call you?" Hermione asked, her smile faltering. "Does Tonks not like it, or something?"

Lupin waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, his nose wrinkling as if he'd smelled something particularly foul. "You know she's not like that," he insisted. "You're my business partner, and my friend."

"So why can't I just call you? Does something _have _to be wrong?"

"No," Lupin sighed, his brow furrowing, "but there are three types of phone calls I get from you. One" – Lupin raised his pointer finger – "the elated, 'sign me up for this show', 'life is fantastic' calls. This wasn't one of those. Two" – he raised another finger – "the business calls, where you ask me questions that I usually can't answer. Three" – index finger raised – "the calls where it doesn't even sound like you on the other side of the phone. Usually that's when you call me at night, or after a show ends, but never, _never _in the middle of rehearsals in the middle of the day." There was a silence where Hermione just stared fixedly at her glass of iced tea, not looking up to meet Lupin's honest, seemingly all-knowing gaze. "What's wrong, Hermione?" he asked, his voice soft and reassuring.

Hermione just about exploded. "It's that bloody Malfoy person!" she said, trying to keep her voice relatively quiet and failing. "He's so – so - such a -"

"Such a git?" Remus suggested, resting his chin on top of his folded hands.

"Git is an understatement," Hermione insisted, twisting her napkin in her lap. "One moment he's so genuine, and I think that he might _not_ be a homicidal maniac robot thing, and then the next – poof! He's out killing people with nail files."

"That might be a touch dramatic 'Mione -"  
"I'm an actress," she said flatly. "I'm prone to drama."

Lupin tilted his head in her direction. "Fair enough…but really, I think you're blowing this out of proportion -"

"I'm not!" Hermione said, too loudly. Heads swivelled, everyone in the restaurant turning to look at the source of the noise. "I'm not," Hermione whispered, a blush colouring her cheeks. "He's infuriating!"

Lupin looked at her knowingly, his amber eyes taking in her features and expression. "You know what," he said slowly, "I think I know what's bothering you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yeah, me too – it's Draco that's bugging me."

"No, I don't think so," Lupin said sagely, the tone of his voice stopping Hermione from interrupting. "You _think _that it's Draco that's bugging you – his mannerisms, attitude, and all that. But really…I think you're in such a tizzy because you don't understand him."

"….come again?" Hermione said, confused by Lupin's statement.

Grinning, Remus tilted his head to indicate that their meals had arrived. As soon as Ryan walked away, leaving Hermione with a bowl of fettucini alfredo and Lupin with a large steak, Remus elaborated. "You're such an analytical, smart person Hermione – don't scoff, you know you are - , and this Draco character follows no pattern."

"Yes, he does," Hermione interrupted, talking around a large forkful of pasta. "He's just an asshole all the time."

"Obviously not," Remus pointed out, jabbing the air with his fork. "I think that something happened this morning that made you doubt that assessment, and that's why you called me."

For a moment Hermione was stunned. _How does Remus know that? Nobody saw us at the piano this morning….. _Furrowing her brow, Hermione placed her fork on the edge of her plate lightly. "Remus," she said, her voice low and quiet. "did you call Flitwick?"

There was a moment of silence where neither person at the lunch table spoke. Then Lupin sighed, the smile slipping off his face. "Yes," he admitted, shaking his head. "After you called me. I was worried. How did you know? He told me that you two didn't see him…"

"We didn't," Hermione said flatly, her glorified image of the composer faltering. "I just guessed."

"Apparently you two made quite the picture," Remus said, a half-smile returning to his face. It quickly disappeared when Hermione's expression darkened. "My guess," he said quickly, "is that you were confused by him being actually somewhat decent this morning. That you thought you saw a different side to him."

Hermione was silent, mulling over Lupin's words as she spun her fork in her bowl. "I guess so," she said, the syllables drawn out and uncertain, "but I know now that it was a mistake. He's just…you know…Malfoy."

"You shouldn't give up on him so soon," Remus said, cutting off another large piece of steak.

Hermione snorted. "You're a fine one to talk – you don't have to work with him virtually twenty-four-seven."

"No," Lupin conceded, shaking his head, "but I _do _know that no matter how much of a git he may be, he's still better than Cormac."

A pool of cold disquiet collected in Hermione's stomach, and she suddenly didn't feel like eating much anymore. Chasing the image of Cormac's greasy smile from her mind, Hermione shook her head. "No," she admitted. "I suppose he isn't."

"Just….look at him without your tinted lenses, okay?" Lupin pleaded.

"…what?"

"Try to see him without labelling him as a git – overlook your first impression. Maybe you might end up seeing more of what you saw this morning."

Hermione sighed, taking a long sip from her iced tea. She didn't reply to Lupin's statement, but she felt his words resonate within her.

"Can't you two just start over?"

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"Places, let's run it again!" Harry shouted, stepping back from the makeshift set.

Hermione wanted to rip her hair out by the roots.

After finishing her lunch with Lupin, she'd returned to the studio to work blocking and choreography for Act I scene v. _If I have to sing about that bloody plane in Spain __**one more time **__today, I might just lose it,_ she'd thought at two o'clock.

It was now almost five.

"Zis eez the last run, I promize," Fleur said, giving Hermione a sympathetic look. "Zen you can all go home."

"Call in the others," Harry said to Fleur, his tone of voice leaving no room for argument. "I think that you guys would kick it up a notch it you had people watching."

Theo groaned. "Really, Harry?" he mumbled, running his fingers through his hair. "We're still fourteen weeks to opening, we're all on book – why do you want us mock-performing rough cuts?"

"Because it will help," Harry said firmly, giving Theo his best director-face. "Something is missing from this scene with you three, and I think that having an audience would help."

Still disbelieving, Hermione moved into her place in the corner of the room. Her heart fell through her stomach as she watched Ron, Neville, Minerva, and Luna all file into the room with eager expressions on their faces. "Performances already?" McGonagall said, surprise obvious in her voice. "I didn't think you young ones were _quite _that good."

"It's an experiment," Harry supplied, his voice suddenly becoming incredibly friendly.

_Hypocrite_, Hermione thought bitterly.

"Alright, darleengz, one more time!" Fleur called out, clapping her hands as a signal to start.

With the practiced ease that only comes from repeating a set of actions over and over and over again until the motions are engraved onto the cell walls of your neurons, Hermione, Draco, and Theo ran the opening dialogue to the song.

"Repeat after me, Eliza," Draco said, his voice taking on Higgins' cadence as he walked around their makeshift couch to stand behind where Hermione was sitting down. "The _rain _in _Spain_ stays _mainly _in the _plain_."

"I can't!" Hermione cried out in a lower-class, Eliza-esque accent. Acting distraught, she threw her head into her hands and tried to hitch her breathing. Already she could feel a strange tingling run through her as an energy filled the room….an energy that hadn't been there before. "I'm so tired."

"No, no, _no,_" Draco insisted, "you are not "tie-red", you are 'so _tired_'."

_It's Draco,_ Hermione thought, her mind whirring into action. _He's actually acting, he's not just reading lines! __**That's**__ the difference in dynamics!_

"For God's sake Higgins," Theo called out from under the newspaper he had over his face. He was sitting slouched in a chair in the corner of the room, pretending to be half-asleep. "It must be past two o'clock in the morning! Do be reasonable, man."

"I _am_ reasonable!" Draco insisted, smacking the palm of his hand down onto the couch behind Hermione's head. Partially because she was staying in character, and partially because she was surprised, Hermione jumped and shot Draco a fearful, angry look.

"Eliza," he said strictly, his voice firm, "if I can go on with a blistering headache, then you can."

"I got a 'eadache too," Hermione insisted, her voice venomous and upset.

After fixing him with another one of her fiery glares, Hermione watched as Draco's expression softened, lines suddenly appearing around his eyes and a tiredness seeping into his aura. "I know your head aches," he said softly, keeping his grey eyes locked on Hermione's brown ones.

_Am I breathing faster? _she wondered, incredulous.

"I know you're tired."

_No, I'm not_, she insisted, knowing that she was just lying to herself.

"I know that your nerves are as raw as meat in a butcher's window."

Hermione would've snorted had she not been fighting so hard to keep herself in-character. _You have no idea, _she thought, but the phrase contained less venom that it should have. It was hard to feel hatred towards someone who was looking at you with so much honesty and depth of feeling.

"…but just _think _of what you're trying to accomplish!" Draco continued, his voice taking on a slightly excited quality. With a spring in his step, he walked around the couch and crouched down just in front of where Hermione was partially reclined. She pressed her hands together in her lap to still their shaking, repeating to herself, _It's just the lack of coffee, Hermione. You're just tired….it has nothing to do with those eyes…._

"Just think what you're dealing with!" he insisted, his gaze taking on a far-away quality as if he were looking at something far beyond Hermione's capability of sight. "The majesty and grandeur of the English language….it's the greatest possession we have, really."

Hermione felt herself nodding along with Draco, feeling his passion and the excitement that Higgins truly would have felt – had he existed – when discussing the subject to which he had devoted his life. That tingling feeling ran up her spine again as she saw a sparkle deep within the never-ending grey of Draco's irises.

"The noblest thoughts that ever flowed through the hearts of men are contained in its extraordinary, imaginative, and…and…" Draco trailed off, his gaze returning to Hermione's eyes, "…and _musical_ mixture of sounds."

A chill ran up and down Hermione's spine at the way that Draco said 'musical', the word taking on an almost religious or reverential quality. _Words as music_, Hermione thought, truly processing the line for the first time. _That's…beautiful._

"And _that's _what you've set out to conquer, Eliza!" Draco insisted, his face tired but elated. Staying in-character, Hermione gave her 'teacher' a sad, dejected look to convey her exhaustion and lack of faith in her ability to actually perform his exercises and change her speech and way of life.

It was then that Draco deviated from the blocking and stopped Hermione's heart. With a single, fluid motion, he lifted his hands and grasped both of hers. His skin was warm, dry, and altogether far too comforting when in close proximity to her own skin. _Too close! Too close! _part of her brain shrieked. _Don't you dare move a muscle! _screamed another.

Draco gave Hermione a small, sad smile, and she almost melted. He finished his line, murmuring, "…and conquer it you will."

Leaving Hermione feeling terribly bereft and cold, Draco let go of her hands and stood up, walking back over to behind the couch. He turned around so that the audience could see his back, leaning the back of his legs against the back of the couch. "Now try it again," he called out, his voice sounding completely drained and emotionless after his long, thoughtful speech.

Hesitant and halting, Hermione took a few deep breaths. Her mind was jumbled and confused, all of her precious order had been turned upside-down in the last few moments. _He's a greasy git,_ she thought, but couldn't quite make the thought convincing. She'd seen Draco's _real _eyes – unshuttered, completely open – twice in one day, and knew that he couldn't just make that up. Somewhere, maybe deep _deep __**deep**__ down, _but somewhere inside Draco there was goodness. And kindness. And charity. And genuine emotion. Strangely enough, Hermione thought about how she'd like to find that layer of his soul. _Lupin said to give him a chance, right? _

Dragging herself back into the scene, she cleared her throat. "The…the…._rain_…." she faltered, obviously taking a painstaking amount of time to draw out the properly-formed, accent-less words. "…in _Spain_…stays _mainly_….in the _p-plain_…."

Hermione could see Draco out of the corner of her eye, so she noticed his posture stiffen. He turned around so that he would be able to see his Eliza. "What was that?" he said slowly, and Hermione could almost picture his expression; a cross between stunned disbelief and elation, not quite decided as to whether or not what he heard was an auditory error.

"The…the _rain_ in _Spain_ stays _mainly _in the _plain_," Hermione repeated, this time injecting her voice with more enthusiasm.

"Again," Draco said flatly, moving around to the side of the couch. Now Hermione could see him properly, his hair dishevelled, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes sparkling with the joy that stemmed from success being within his sight. Someone started playing the piano, providing the lead-in to the song, but Hermione barely noticed. She was too wrapped up in the acting.

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain," she said, her voice surprised and excited, mirroring her teacher's new enthusiasm.

"I think she's got it!" Draco called out.

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain," Hermione sung out, proud and clear.

"By George she's got it!" Draco shouted, jumping across the room and pulling the newspaper off of a sleeping Theo's face. "By _George_, she's _got it_!"

Theo grumbled something unintelligible, but Draco was roughly pulling the Colonel to his feet. "Now once again, where does it rain?" Malfoy asked.

"On the plain!" Hermione sang, "On the plain!"

"And where's that soggy plane?" Draco sang.

"In _Spain!_ In _Spain!_" Hermione replied.

Together she, Theo, and Draco started singing; "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain. The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!"

The song continued, a wondrous combination of notes and rhythms that came together to express Higgins, Eliza, and Pickering's joy at Eliza's triumph. They performed a strange sort-of conga line around the room, then Theo acted as a bull while Eliza spurred him on with her handkerchief, eventually grabbing the Colonel's hands and leading him into an upbeat dance instead.

As choreographed, Draco stepped in to grab Hermione's hands and dance with her for six bars. Hermione was caught up in the whir of excitement, her eyes sparkling and her laughter echoing around the room during the instrumental section of the song. She felt his hands in hers, and it felt absolutely _right_. Like they fit together. Like she was supposed to be this close to the young man with the sad, grey eyes. Like she wanted to be close to him.

With a dramatic climax, the trio sang the title of the song once more before collapsing into an exhausted heap on the sofa, Hermione resting her head on Draco's shoulder while Theo provided further comic relief by almost falling off the opposite end of the sofa.

All at once, Hermione realized that she was being watched. By people. Her friends. And that she had her head on Draco Malfoy's shoulder. And most of all…that she didn't mind.

Still semi-high from the elated rush of adrenaline and excitement that came with their mini-performance, Hermione scraped the nerves together to speak. "You were fantastic," she whispered, taking advantage of the fact that Draco's ear was a mere few inches away from her lips. "I knew that you'd make a fantastic Higgins. I could feel it when I heard you sing."

Immediately Hermione knew that she'd made a mistake. Draco stiffened, propelling himself off of the couch with a speed that seemed impossible. Making no move to respond to Hermione's comment, the blonde picked at imaginary lint on his sleeve while giving a minor bow in the direction of the applauding spectators. With a small, sideways glance, Draco jerked his chin to indicate that Hermione should stand up too.

She caught a glimpse of his eyes, and Hermione's heart plummeted. They were closed off again, slate-grey safe doors that hid away the treasure within the young man's soul.

As Hermione stood up, she barely processed whatever Neville, Ron, Minerva, and Luna were saying. All she saw was Harry, standing by the door of the room, clapping slowly with a big grin on his face. With a loud clap, he caused the spectators and actors to fall silent for a moment. Then he spoke.

"If this is any indication folks, it looks like we're in for a fantastic show!"

"Here here!" Flitwick called out from the piano.

"Absolutely!" Ron shouted.

"Marvellous, simply marvellous!" Minerva gushed.

"Good work, Hermione," Theo whispered, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "You were fantastic."

But the one person that she wished would – that she _needed _to hear speak remained silent. Draco kept his face emotionless and impassive, staring at some point on the blank wall they were facing.

"Draco?" Hermione said quietly, daring to hope that he might respond to a direct address.

Without even a glance back at Hermione, the blonde walked past the spectators and out of the room. The door closed with an echoing finality, and despite the cheers and congratulations from all her friends, Hermione felt like she was going to be sick.

_A/N: Yes, I know...this is very late...please don't pelt me with rotten fruit. As you can see this chapter is MASSIVE, and lots of stuff happens! It was tricky to write, but I have to note that the script is actually the "My Fair Lady" script - it's not my writing (as much as I wish it was). Also, the statements about "bar 144" are entirely inaccurate; I don't have the sheet music, so I have no idea when Colonel Pickering is supposed to enter the song...so yeah._

_Please R&R, your comments mean the world to me. Thanks for sticking with this pathetically late, over-extended, wanna-be-author. :) :) You guys literally make my days. :)_

_~sneakyslytherin_


	6. Just You Wait

It's not every day that Hermione could say she was almost killed by a writing desk. Then again, it's also not every day that a dozen antique writing desks are being ferried up and down a narrow stairwell for a potential client. Or that one of the workmen's hands slip. Basically, that Thursday wasn't an 'every day' kind-of day.

Just as Hermione opened the door to head up to the Crawley Rehearsal Hall, the poor gentlemen handling the rejected desk were attempting to fumble their way out of the stairwell and into the street. With a loud crash, the desk slipped from the fingers of the bottom workman and hit the concrete stairs, tumbling down out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Hermione let out a particularly high-pitched and embarrassing shriek, jumping to the side just in time to narrowly avoid the heavy piece of furniture. The dangerous desk settled a mere foot away from the roadway, seeming almost to sigh as it finally came to rest on its side.

"Oh, sorry miss!" an apologetic workman said, red-in-the-face and out of breath. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, um, no worries," Hermione said, willing her heart rate to drop back to normal.

"The director, uh, insisted on us bringing the desks up the stairs," the workman explained, reaching his arm up behind his head to awkwardly scratch under his ball cap. In the meantime, his colleague had scurried past Hermione and was attempting to flip the desk upright so that it could be loaded into the back of the large lorry parked further down the street.

"Harry wanted to see desks?" Hermione said, trying not to make her surprise too obvious.

The workman looked embarrassed. "Director Potter, yeah," he agreed, careful to use the director's formal address.

"He's looking for set pieces already then," Hermione said, smiling as the workman nodded overenthusiastically.

"Yes miss," he confirmed, his nerves and embarrassment chased away by Hermione's bright smile and surprising kind nature after nearly being flattened. "Apparently you have an office in your play, and this office needs a desk…"

"Absolutely," she nodded. "Did he like that one?" she asked, gesturing to the still-upended desk being fussed over by the second man.

The workman looked down at the street. "Unfortunately no," he mumbled, moving to scratch his head again. "We're back to square one."

"I'm sure you'll find one, no worries," Hermione reassured him, flashing another smile. "Best of luck!" she called out, pushing open the studio door and leaving the busy street behind her.

When she punched in the code to enter the rehearsal hall, however, the scene that greeted her was just as chaotic – if not more – than the street she just left. Multiple voices were raised, all clamouring over one another to be heard in the crowded, prop- and people-filled main entryway, and somewhere close it sounded like an entire orchestra was playing the overture for the musical. _They probably are, _Hermione admitted, glancing warily at the closed door that was doing a poor job of filtering out the noise.

"Where the bloody hell did the potted ferns go?!" a voice shouted, irritated and at least momentarily louder than everyone else. "They're bloody plants, they can't have grown legs and walked away!"

Hermione smiled at Harry's simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated voice before pursuing the sound through the mess of people and objects. With many 'excuse me's and 'sorry's, she eventually managed to push between a disgruntled set designer and an elaborate birdcage to sidle up next to the director. "Hello Harry," she shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth so that her dark-haired friend might be able to hear her.

Pushing his fringe out of his eyes so that Hermione caught a momentary glimpse of his scar, Harry grinned and made a silent gesture towards a dark, closed door. She nodded, and followed him through the madness and into the blissfully empty room. Harry shut the door behind them with a clang, bringing the familiar music room into merciful, benevolent silence. "Good lord," Harry breathed, slumping against the wall. "Remind me why I agreed to do this, Hermione?"

The singer laughed, shucking off her coat and draping it over the piano stool. "If I recall correctly, it was you who came up with the idea in the first place; no one made you _agree _to anything."

Harry groaned, sitting down on the hardwood floor and closing his eyes. "I hate it when you're right," he mumbled, a faint smile flitting across his features. Cracking one eye open, Harry slumped down even further so that he was lying completely. "What're you rehearsing today?" he asked, eyes shut once more.

"Vocals for act one scene five," Hermione supplied, settling herself down next to Harry and staring at the ceiling. "Specifically my song, _I Could Have Danced All Night_."

"Brilliant," the director replied without opening his eyes. "You'll do that beautifully 'Mione." Pausing for a moment, he added; "…just _your _vocals?"

"Yes," Hermione affirmed. "Just mine. We're not working on my, Theo, and Malfoy's part of that scene today. Flitwick just wanted to run the song with me before choreo and blocking tomorrow."

"Fair enough," Harry said. "If Draco's not here today I know that today will at least be relatively positive."

A strange pain filled Hermione's chest when Harry mentioned Draco. It was like someone had dropped a hot poker into one lung and half an iceberg into the other, making her breathing uneven and her thoughts sluggish. Her body was shadowing her mind's confusion about her co-star, torn between the boy with the sad eyes and the prat with the arrogant sneer.

"Don't shoot the messenger, but he's coming later in the day," Hermione supplied, depressed that she had to be the bearer of bad news but impressed that she could string together a sentence. Harry's groan made the twinge of guilt she felt grow bigger. "He's running "Ordinary Man" with Flitwick right after I'm done with my scene."

"And the day was going so bloody well," Harry swore, dragging his hands over his face.

"Ron's also here today," Hermione supplied, seeing an image of the schedule in her mind. "He's choreographing with Fleur and the other male dancers in room seven, so it might be smart to keep Draco away from there."

"Good point," the director agreed, his eyes still shut.

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence.

"….Harry?"

"Mmmnn?"

"You're falling asleep."

"Mmhiiehm."

"I rehearse in here in five minutes."

"Fnnmm?"

"You might want to find somewhere else to nap."

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"Gorgeous Hermione, simply gorgeous!" Flitwick gushed, his small face flushed and dominated by a large, toothy smile. "Loewe and Lerner must have written this just for you."

Hermione blushed, looking down embarrassedly at the piano. "It's really nothing, Mister Flitwick," she mumbled, twisting a simple silver ring round and round her right middle finger. "It's beautiful music, I'm just here to sing it."

"Still, still," the composer insisted, waving his hand as if to dismiss Hermione's modesty. "Just a small matter with the bridge…can you hold that note slightly longer, just to give it more ring? You have that subtle, wonderful vibrato that gives the high notes such sustenance; it would really add to the key change to have your voice complimenting it."

"Of course sir," she agreed, grabbing her pencil from the music stand and quickly making a note above the specified bar of music. "No worries."

"From the top, one last time?"

"Oh, but we just need to start from -"

"From the top, please, Miss Granger."

"…yes, of course."

With his usual grace and dexterity, Flitwick's nimble, thin fingers played the introduction to Eliza's solo love song, _I Could Have Danced All Night_. The light, optimistic opening notes conveyed the main character's giddy elation and the beginnings of affection stirring within her, causing her to question her feelings and why she felt so at peace and excited in her professor's arms during their impromptu celebratory dance in "The Rain in Spain".

Hermione used the introduction to close her eyes and delve into her emotional bank, looking for the feeling of her first teenage kiss, the thrill of that day where she felt beautiful, and the excitement of getting a set of difficult harmonies absolutely perfect. When she opened her eyes, she wasn't Hermione Granger; she was a giddy, love-stricken Eliza Doolittle, in the process of falling for her dour, complicated teacher.

"_Bed, bed, I couldn't go to bed, my head's too light to try to set it down…._

_Sleep, sleep, I couldn't sleep tonight, not for all the jewels in the crown!_

_I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night,_

_And still have begged for more._

_I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things _

_I'd never done before._

_I'll never know what made it so exciting….._

_Why all at once my heart took flight!_

_I only know when he began to dance with me,_

_I could have danced, danced, danced all night!"_

Getting swept up in the emotion and elation of the song, Hermione stepped away from the music stand and sketched an imaginary bow to an invisible dance partner. She grinned at her own foolishness, but still reached for her imaginary partner's shoulder and hand all the same. Flitwick transitioned into the second chorus, and Hermione sang the verse as she twirled around the room, waltzing in time to the music and revelling in the carefree, elated feeling running through her veins. Only, her partner wasn't imaginary now; he was partly corporeal, a strange mist of emotion and imagination creating an ethereal figure that danced before her, leading her in a series of complex steps around the empty room. Hermione couldn't see much about her partner's physique, but she could see his eyes very clearly; grey and bottomless, her specter's eyes were swirling and moving like outer space, the light suspended like stars amidst the colourful irises.

Flitwick played the final transitional key change, the music slowing slightly before picking up again, quieter than before. Hermione stopped her dancing and stood, stock still, eyes shut. Her partner disappeared, but the image of the grey, bottomless universe swirled behind her eyelids, painting a vivid and beautiful picture. Singing that she could have 'spread her wings', she reached her arms up to either side of her, slowly stretching towards the ceiling in a lazy, relaxed form of contentment. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself in a sort-of embrace, singing the penultimate line and swaying back and forth.

Finally, flinging her arms upwards, Hermione's eyes shot open and she grinned, hitting the final high note of 'night' with a flourish and an enthusiasm that she had not yet achieved in rehearsal. As her eyes actually took in her surroundings, however, she almost faltered; there, leaning against the door, looking like a languid and particularly unimpressed panther, was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's heart stopped in her chest. _How much has he seen? _she wondered, suddenly panicked. _Harry sent him in here to prevent him from running into Ron…oh, but __**I'm **__in here, he __**knows **__that! Oh my god I must look like a nutter…._

Grasping at straws, she gave Draco a weak, hopeful smile. He returned her gaze with a raised eyebrow and a petulant sneer.

Flitwick played the final few notes of the song, but Hermione barely heard them; she was too busy trying to decide whether she was enraged or destroyed. Gathering up the few shreds of dignity she had left, Hermione packed her bag and grabbed her jacket from the piano stool.

"That was stupendous, Hermione," Flitwick insisted, standing up from the piano and giving her hips an awkward hug. "You sounded so emotional, so genuine – ah! And that final note was a thing of perfection. Am I right Mister Malfoy?"

Hermione didn't realize that Flitwick knew Draco was in the room…and apparently Draco didn't know that either. Starting slightly, the blonde's eyes widened. "I didn't hear," he replied lamely, lacking his usual venom. "I only walked in during the final measure or so."

"Nonsense, Malfoy," Flitwick insisted, whirling around to face the blonde. "I'm a composer, it's my job to listen to the world around me; I heard you enter just after Hermione finished singing the first verse."

Mortification flooded Hermione's mind, and she wondered how difficult it would be to dig a hole through the floor. _It works for ostriches._

Draco was obviously slightly embarrassed too, as a touch of pink coloured his ebony cheeks. "I, well…" coughing, Draco stood up straight. "It was a satisfactory performance."

Suddenly, Hermione's embarrassment was replaced with incredulity. "Satisfactory?" she said, her voice halting.

Draco shrugged. "Yes, I'd say that. In fact, I did _just _say that. Do you have a hearing issue, Miss Granger, or are you merely fishing for compliments?"

Incredulity transitioned into rage. "I, Malfoy, never _fish for compliments_," Hermione said, her voice ice cold and every syllable enunciated flawlessly. "However, I have no qualms when it comes to _giving _compliments when deserved, even if the recipient doesn't acknowledge my comment." Hermione felt a perverse sense of satisfaction as something flickered behind Draco's eyes, knowing that he was remembering his horrid behaviour at the conclusion of the "Rain in Spain" rehearsal.

Hermione continued her mini-tirade, too riled up to stop at this point. "If my performance was simply satisfactory, Mister Malfoy, perhaps you would enlighten me with how I can improve upon it? I'm always looking for suggestions on how to better my _satisfactory _efforts."

For a moment Malfoy was silent, and Hermione was proud of herself for managing to have some sort of the last word. Then Malfoy opened his mouth and the joy ended. "Perhaps if you didn't dance with an invisible partner, you'd be less out of breath for the key change," the blonde suggested, his eyes cold and filled with a strange glee. "Or, if you insist on continuing in your dancing, perhaps some out-of-rehearsal fitness sessions would be in order?"

If Flitwick hadn't been in the room, Hermione would have most likely clawed Draco's eyes out from his skull. Rage bubbled up in her soul, hot and poisonous, spreading through her bloodstream and infecting every fiber of her being before finally filling her vision with a red film.

"Now now you two, claws away," Flitwick squeaked, his voice tremulous and obviously uncertain. "If you can calm yourself down enough to be in a room together for a few moments, I had something that I wanted to talk to you two about."

Draco let out a harsh bark of a laugh. "Yes, mister composer?" he said, his gaze not leaving Hermione's for once instant.

Flitwick coughed awkwardly. "Well, I…this is incredibly horrendous timing but…um…I was hoping you two might accompany me for dinner this Friday."

Both Draco and Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?" Hermione asked, breaking her stare to look at the small, obviously unwell composer.

"For song-writing reasons, naturally," Flitwick supplied, giving the two actors a sheepish smile. "I have to write the new love song for Eliza and Higgins, and was hoping you two might provide insight on yourselves and the characters in order for me to better create an accurate, believable piece."

There was a stunned silence that filled the room. _You've got to be joking, _Hermione thought, staring incredulously at Flitwick and contemplating whether or not this was his sick attempt at humour. Unfortunately, the small man seemed serious.

Just then, however, Hermione had an epiphany…that is, if you can call the sudden formation of an evil, maniacal plan an 'epiphany'. "Where were you thinking of?" she asked, smiling sweetly at Flitwick.

Unnerved by his singer's sudden change in demeanour, Flitwick stuttered. "Uh…I-I had thought that The W-Wolsley would do?"

"Oh, lovely!" Hermione said, clapping her hands together in a dramatic and girlish expression of joy. "Friday at…say, seven-thirty? Would that work for you Draco?"

Hermione turned her gaze to the incredibly confused and silent blonde who was still standing at the door. "..uh…well…yes, I suppose -"

"Fantastic," Hermione gushed. "Simply wonderful. I'm looking forward to seeing you both there – now, if you'll excuse me Mister Flitwick, Mister Malfoy, I have some personal business that I have to see too. Ta."

And with an exaggerated, sickly-sweet motion, Hermione blew a kiss to Draco as she walked by him and out of the room. Navigating through the chaos of the entryway with minimal fuss, Hermione let a genuine, malicious smile spread across her face.

_Just you wait, Draco Malfoy_, she thought, barely keeping herself from dancing with excitement. _Just you wait. _

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"I really don't get how she works, you know?" Draco groused, shoving his hands into his pockets as he and Theo left the music room. "One moment she's snarky and outwardly horrible, the next – poof! – she becomes sickly sweet."

"What's wrong with sickly sweet?" Theo asked, pushing open the door to the fire escape and letting Draco walk out first.

"She may sound all innocent and light-hearted, but you _know _she's planning something," Draco warned, walking over to the edge of the metal semi-balcony.

"Really?" Theo asked, bemused. The door swung shut behind him. "How do you know? It's not like she's exacted any plans on you."

"It's her eyes," Draco blurted out, rummaging around in the pocket of his bomber jacket. "They're usually so open and you know exactly how she's feeling, what she's thinking. Whenever she goes all 'sweet', her eyes always go dark. Like someone closed a door, or something."

Theo raised a single dark, well-sculpted eyebrow. "Spending a lot of time staring into her eyes, are we?"

With a triumphant cry, Draco pulled a pack of Nicorette gum out from the inner pocket of his jacket. Only then did he process what his friend had said, and his expression turned sour. "I'm not even going to grace that with a response, Theo."

"She's pretty."

"If you like hedgerows then yes, I suppose she's pretty."

"She's smart."

"And uses her powers for evil."

"She can sing."

"….she's average."

"Wait, hold up a moment," Theo said, holding out his hand and snatching the pack of gum out of Malfoy's fumbling fingers. The blonde hadn't yet managed to push a piece out of the plastic-tinfoil wrapping, and Theo glared at him as he held the package out of Draco's reach. "Did you just insinuate that Hermione Granger has an _average _singing voice?" he said, his voice strangely high-pitched and his eyes wide.

"Yes," Draco said calmly, eyeing the pack of gum in his friend's distant hand. He was getting jittery, and knew that within the next few minutes he absolutely positively _needed_ a Nicorette. Or a cigarette. Whichever one was more handy.

Theo laughed, the sound humourless and slightly crazed sounding. "Hermione Granger?" he wheezed. "We're talking about the same girl?!"

"…it's a ridiculous name," Draco drawled, internally very confused. "I'd assume that only one person would have it."

"Draco, mi amigo," Theo said, tossing the blonde the package of gum after taking a piece for himself. "Even _you _can't be so arrogant as to say that Hermione's voice is just average. It's stupendous, gorgeous, a one-in-a-million miracle combination of pitch, tone, and skill. No one in all of show-business can hold a candle to her."

"She knows it though!" Draco protested, frantically liberating a Nicorette piece from the package. "I mean, what good is talent if it goes along with arrogance?"

"Well you -" Theo froze, his eyes suddenly wide. "Draco," he said slowly, walking from the closed door over to where the blonde was standing by the railing. "How do you _know _that she knows she can sing?"

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "I heard her rehearse this morning," he explained, popping the gum into his mouth. "Her solo from Act Five Scene One."

"Ah, yes, the one about dancing."

"The very same. Anyways, when she was finished Flitwick asked me how I thought she'd done. When I gave her the same response I just gave you, she seemed incredibly offended."

Theo was silent, his eyes staring out at an awning across the small side street that advertised falafel. "Draco," he said slowly, still not moving his eyes from the awning, "tell me you're kidding. You didn't really tell Hermione Granger – _to her face _– that her singing was only adequate?"

"Yes, I did. Is there a problem?"

"Problem?!" Theo exploded, suddenly turning to face his friend. "You've just created the Mount Vesuvius of all problems, Malfoy! This is a veritable Armageddon-sized problem! Good God…"

"What is it?" Draco snapped. "I told her the truth, and she got offended. End of story."

"But you _didn't _tell her the truth," Theo said, frustrated. "And, on top of that, your answer revealed you for the pompous, idiotic ass that you are!"

"I resent that," Draco said dryly, obviously unaffected by Theo's words.

The dark-haired man sighed, propping his elbows up on the railing and resting his chin in his hands. "This won't be good for you, you know," he said, staring blankly at nothing. "First you behaved like a total dick the other day -"

"When was this?" Draco asked, irritated.

"All the time, most likely since your birth. But particularly after "The Rain in Spain"", Theo supplied. "She complimented you, you did nothing. She was obviously pretty hurt by that."

"Hurt?" Draco scoffed. "She doesn't give a damn whether or not I exist so long as my acting compliments hers."

"Not true," Theo insisted, giving his friend an exasperated glance. "She obviously wants to establish a positive work relationship with you, and might I mention that you're making that incredibly difficult?"

"But I -"

"Shut up, you know you are. And now, on top of it, you've insulted the one thing about her that she's actually proud of!"

"You sound like you really know this girl's inner thoughts, Theo," Draco said, his lips curving up into a smirk. "Tell me, how do you have such vast knowledge of Hermione Granger's soul?"

"_West End Weekly Magazine_," Theo said flatly. "She's given them multiple interviews, in all of which she expressed massive insecurities about everything in her life except for her voice."

"Pah," Draco scoffed. "I'm sure that her wonderful, cake-walk of a life has been fraught with misfortune and adversity. Did she break one too many nails?"

"Don't," Theo said sharply, his tone suddenly very serious. Malfoy turned to look at his friend, carefully noting his stormy expression. "You obviously don't know the first thing about Hermione," Theo said angrily. "According to her interviews, her parents went wonky and moved to Australia. They've left her alone for most of her life anyways, and were basically negligent parents. She's had no luck in relationships _ever_, and she lived on the streets for six months when she couldn't get a job and couldn't pay her rent. So please, Draco, just shut up."

Malfoy was momentarily at a loss for words. Something strange was stirring in his chest, just below his diaphragm, but he immediately chalked that up to his delayed nicotine fix. Searching through his mind quickly, he stated lamely, "I don't make it a habit to read that rag. Most of the 'news' they broadcast isn't even real. Miss Granger probably lived in a run-down flat in Soho for a few months, that's all."

Theo raised his eyebrow again, shaking his head. "You can be so deliberately obtuse sometimes, you know that." Obviously the dark-haired actor sensed the lack of conviction behind Draco's words, as he didn't continue to pursue the subject. Sighing, he continued; "The fact of the matter is, Draco, you've screwed up. Big time. You've not only insulted a female – which is a bad idea in the first place – but you've also insulted a now very angry and very insecure female with a good head on her shoulders and a flare for drama." Theo pushed himself back from the railing and headed back towards the warmth of the rehearsal hall. "If I were you I'd try to avoid her for a few days."

"Not possible," Draco said flatly, a blank, inky fear spreading through his mind. "I'm supposed to have dinner with her and Flitwick tomorrow night at The Wolsley."

A high-pitched, ringing laughter echoed across the fire escape and the side street, causing Draco to whip around with his features drawn into an irritated expression. "What is it?" he snapped, crossing his arms. "What's so funny."

Theo was wheezing, barely able to breathe properly. Finally, doubled over, he managed to squeeze out, "You, mate, are _fucked_," before dissolving into another bout of laughter.

"Why?" Draco insisted, stalking over and pulling on Theo's shoulder to bring him upright. "What is it?"

"She'll be out for blood," he wheezed, wiping tears from under his eyes. "She now has the perfect set-up to exact some sort of terrible revenge."

"Revenge?"

"Yes, Draco, revenge. So I'd recommend either grovelling to her before-hand in order to get her to call off whatever elaborate, horrific escapade she's crafted, or – nevermind…"

"Or what?" Draco asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. The image of an angry Hermione Granger with a dinner knife kept popping up in his mind, and he tried his best to push it away.

"Or….well, it's not ideal," Theo said, mumbling, "you could come up with a retaliatory plot. Fight fire with fire, so to speak. But that'd be stupid."

Releasing his friend's shoulder and pushing open the door to re-enter the building, Draco allowed a slow, smug smile to spread across his face. "It just so happens Theo," he said, "that I am an expert at plotting and scheming."

_A/N: Hello again, darling readers! Sorry for the ridiculous delay between chapters, life is mildly insane right now. Between work and exams, I'd be incredibly surprised if I posted anything again in the next couple of weeks - sorry! If I do end up posting anything, comment and tell me that I'm procrastinating and should go study. :) _

_Also, apologies for the transitional nature of this chapter - as you can see there's some necessary set-up here. Dramione fluff soon to come, I pinky promise. :)_

_Again, song names and lyrics used in this chapter belong to Lerner and Loewe, not me. _

_Lots of love to all of y'all who read my writing. You are my sunshines. ~sneakyslytherin_

_PS - I'm contemplating posting a Sherlock fic that I've been working on. If anyone has any thoughts on that, feel free to PM me or comment. :) :) _


	7. The Rain in Spain

"In all the spy books" – red pencil skirt – "that I've ever read" – sequined tank top – "or that have ever been published, even," – one black high heeled shoe – "they never" – chequered infinity scarf – "mentioned how bloody _difficult _it is" – a slightly wrinkled light blue blazer – "to dress for revenge!"

Following the clothes out of the relatively small closet was a frazzled and annoyed Hermione Granger, her wet hair wrapped up in a towel and a bathrobe cinched tightly at her waist. "For the love of god," she sighed, looking at the improvised Mount Everest of mismatched clothing, "this shouldn't be tricky. Honestly, it's just dinner."

Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed, holding her all-too-heavy head in her hands. "But that's the problem," she groaned, hunching over. "It's not a dinner date," – _so no bright colours or overly nice makeup - _ "it's not just dinner with friends" – _no jeans and sweaters, damn it_ – "…it's _definitely _not dinner and clubbing." – _no sequins, no short anything, no low cut anything_ – "but it's not exactly a professional dinner." – _so, no business suits. What the hell does that leave me with?! _Grabbing a perfectly inoffensive throw pillow from her bed and chucking it vigorously at the wall, Hermione groaned. "I hate being female," she mumbled, curling up on the bed and trying to be as still as possible.

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"Why on earth does male clothing have to be so horribly predictable?!" Draco hissed, throwing yet another relatively boring tie to the floor. "It's infuriating!"

Whirling away from the full-length mirror and simultaneously smoothing his hair back, the blonde shot a questioning glare to the other man in the room. "I mean really," Draco insisted, unbuttoning the fifth dress shirt he'd tried on, reaching for a yet-untouched light blue one in the closet, "it's all about what tie you wear, or what colour your suit is – there's no real choice, is there?"

"I suppose," the second man said, his voice low and slow. "Never really thought about it."

"Then what on earth do you think about when you get dressed every morning?" Draco asked, shucking off the unsuccessful shirt and sliding into the next one.

The man tilted his head and gave Draco a confused look. "Well…I suppose I don't really think of anything at all."

Draco rolled his eyes as he did up the final button with a pronounced flourish. "Why doesn't that surprise me," he murmured, walking back towards the mirror.

"That one looks good, Draco!" the second man said, grinning.

"Well," Draco said, examining his reflection critically, "you appear to have an eye for colour, Greg."

The man positively beamed at the compliment. Draco allowed himself a small smile as he looked his friend up and down, satisfied with his handiwork. "You know, Greg," he said, his voice positively bleeding charm, "you really would make a spectacular waiter."

"A real one though, not a fake one, right?" the man asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yes," Draco agreed, doing up the buttons on the cuffs of the dress shirt. "You really look almost aristocratic in a tux."

Goyle smiled again before asking excitedly; "What tie do you think you'll wear with that one?"

"No tie, I think," Draco said pensively, undoing the top two buttons of the shirt. "But a blazer. Definitely a blazer."

"You might want to wear a black blazer, Malfoy," Goyle said, his voice sounding sheepish and quiet.

"Oh?" Draco said archly, looking at his friend's reflection in the mirror. "Why?"

"…I'm worried that I might miss."

"You won't. I promise you, it's virtually impossible that you'll miss her. She's the one with an infuriating birds nest on the top of her head."

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

Hermione fidgeted nervously as she got out of the cab, unintentionally crumpling and uncrumpling the money for her fare over and over again. Somewhat embarrassedly, she handed the cabbie the mangled bills. "Keep the change," she said, avoiding the cabbie's critical gaze as she scuttled away from the cab and under the cover of the restaurant outdoor entryway.

Whenever Hermione crossed into this part of town, she ended up feeling incredibly self-conscious. She was fine up to Piccadilly Circus – there were quite a few theatres nestled in and around there – but as soon as she hit the outskirts of Mayfair she'd start fussing. It was as if there was an invisible poison that filled her being with a sense of non-belonging with every breath, a feeling of wrong-ness and of intrusion, planting the idea that she really didn't belong there and should just crawl back to the other side of the Thames.

_I'm here for dinner_, she thought firmly, glaring at her shoes and pulling her long raincoat closer around herself.

"Ma'am?" a deep voice said from behind where Hermione was standing. "Are you joining us for dinner?"

Turning around slowly, Hermione gave a man in a bowler hat and trench coat a hesitant, embarrassed smile. _Doorman. He must be the doorman._ "Erm, yes," she said, faltering. "I um, we should that is, have a reservation under 'Flitwick'?"

The doorman gave Hermione a sympathetic – _is that condescending? _– smile. "You tell the ladies inside about that, ma'am, not me."

"Oh, sorry," Hermione said, flustered. "I'll just go in then, shall I?"

This time, the doorman's smile appeared to be genuine. "But of course," he said, opening the door and motioning with his gloved – _gloved? What are we, Victorian?! _– hand towards the warmth and light of the restaurant. "Enjoy your dinner ma'am."

"Thanks," Hermione said, giving the man a nervous smile before steadfastly walking into the restaurant. There were a cluster of people in front of the small hostess table, so Hermione pulled off to the side and fished her mobile out of her jacket pocket. Seeing a 'new messages' alert, Hermione felt a stone of panic drop in her stomach. She frantically opened a conversation with a contact named "Donnie". A string of unread messages appeared on Hermione's screen.

_I'm totally loving this. Is project "Dragonfly" still a-go?_

_ ….Hermy?_

_ ...as fun as stakeouts are, I'd love to know that my work is being appreciated here._

_ And that we're still good to go._

_ 'Cause I love me a bit of sabotage._

_ …Hermy?_

_ Hermanfish?_

_ Hermyninny?_

_ GRANGER WHERE HAVE YOU GOT TO?_

As fast as her fingers would allow, Hermione typed out a quick reply.

**_I'm at the restaurant, and we're still set to go. Wait for my signal?_**

It seemed like there was almost immediately a reply.

_Righty-roo, Hermy. With one text from you, I will be all over this prick. You said he's hot, right?_

Hermione sighed. That was _such _a Donnie comment.

**_ If you find smug and arrogant appealing, then I suppose so. But that's beside the point. Just do your job, Donnie, pleeease._**

Another new message.

****_No need to get shirty – I'll wait all night for you, there is a tasty barista over here mmmmMM!_

_**Over and out, then. Don't scare him away.**_

****_Sod off, keep me posted. J 3_

When Hermione looked up from her phone again, the line in front of her had disappeared and the hostess was looking at her expectantly. Blushing profusely, Hermione shoved her phone into her coat pocket. "Erm, sorry about that, I uh….I should have a reservation? Under the name "Flitwick"?"

The hostess looked down at her computer with a relatively pleasant smile. "For three?"

"Uh, I think so."

"Fantastic," the hostess said, grabbing a menu from beside the computer, "the other two members of your party are here already."

_Shit._

"If you'd follow me, please miss?"

"I, uh – yes, of course," Hermione stuttered, tingling with nerves. So much of tonight depended on Donnie, and Hermione was desperately praying that her friend wouldn't be too distracted by the barista. Hermione faded back into reality, slowly registering that the hostess was talking to her as they walked.

"….so you're upstairs miss; from there you can see the entire restaurant."

Hermione chose that minute to look around herself, and had to concentrate very hard on continuing to move forwards. She'd seen opulence before – when in the drama world, it was very difficult to only meet modest, frugal people – but this restaurant was slightly ridiculous. Everything was panelled in copper and gold-coloured metal, and seemed to shine with an inherent inner light. Hermione's first thought was one of sympathy to the poor cleaning staff who'd have to polish the entire bloody restaurant every night. The lights hanging above her were ornate brass chandeliers, and even though they were electrically powered the light they gave off was the amber colour of candlelight from a bygone, more romantic era. All the tables were draped with immaculate white tablecloths, and were each enhanced by a small brass vase – _more things to polish, poor souls _– that held delicate white flowers to match the table cloths.

"What are the flowers?" Hermione asked, trying to make small-talk with the now-silent hostess.

The woman gave Hermione a patient, "dealing-with-idiots" smile that the actress immediately resented. _I'm not two years old, I'm asking a question_, she thought angrily, keeping her smile plastered on her face.

"That's gyp – sometimes called 'baby's breath', ma'am," the hostess said slowly. "It's not really much of a flower – they're really just bouquet fillers really, but the frost and the recent snowstorms have really wreaked havoc with our greenhouses."

"They're pretty," Hermione said stubbornly, looking at the pale dustings of white on fragile green stems.

The hostess' smile didn't falter, but Hermione assumed that she'd be telling all her hostess friends about this weird chick who liked the weeds that the bosses had put into the vases that night.

"Watch your step," the hostess said, leading Hermione up a set of particularly steep, narrow stairs to the upper landing of the restaurant. "Your table is just in front of you…"

But Hermione had stopped listening to her guide and had started focussing very intently on breathing properly. Draco Malfoy – _snarky, arrogant, despicable, rude, Draco Malfoy _– looked exactly like a still from an old twenties movie; his hair was slicked back only slightly, leaving it still looking natural and light, and he was immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit and blazer with a light blue dress shirt. The top two buttons had been left undone, and he had decided not to wear a tie, leaving a small triangle of ivory skin exposed,. Maybe it was just the glamorous lighting from the ridiculous chandeliers, but Hermione thought that he looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine and into her life. For a moment she felt a twist of guilt in her stomach, pulling at her conscience and planting a seed of doubt in her mind.

That is, until he noticed her presence.

"Granger," he drawled, his face poisoned by a condescending smirk, "good of you to join us. Finally."

_Perfect vision shattered._

"Come now Malfoy, she's right on time – we were just early." With a start, Hermione noticed Flitwick sitting on Draco's left, wearing one of his usual immaculate three-piece suits. Giving her a genuine smile, the composer gestured to the still-empty chair beside him and across from Draco. "I'd rise to greet you, but it wouldn't make much difference," he joked, chuckling.

Hermione gave the composer a small, tight smile before approaching her chair. "Miss?" the hostess asked, still standing beside Hermione. "May I take your coat?"

"Um…" Hermione trailed off, hesitating for a moment. "I suppose so, sure."

Attempting to be as quick as possible, Hermione undid the belt and buttons on her winter trench coat before slipping it off her shoulders. The cold air hit her bare shoulders, and she shivered slightly. "Thanks," she said quickly, practically throwing her jacket at the hostess before leaping into her chair.

When Hermione looked up, however, her breath caught in her throat; Draco was staring at her! She felt like she should be gloating, savouring this one moment where she appeared to have genuinely caught Draco's attention in a positive way. But, she wasn't gloating – instead, Hermione had the strangest urge to ask for her jacket back before the hostess took it away.

It's not like she was dressed provocatively or anything…but she'd asked for Donnie's advice on what to wear which, she admitted, was probably a mistake. In the end she'd decided on a white dress that was a modern take on the Victorian style; the strips of fabric connected to the bodice that would typically serve as sleeves wrapped around her upper arms, a large belt circled her waist, and the bottom half of the dress became loose and flowing, ending just below her knees. The look left her shoulders bare, and she'd pulled her hair up into a chignon so that her neck was also exposed to the cold air. _Stupid for the winter time_, she thought, chiding herself for ever listening to Donnie.

"You seem to have rendered Draco speechless, Miss Granger!" Flitwick said, his eyes flicking between the two. Hermione flushed, desperately wishing she'd just kept her jacket on.

The comment seemed to snap Draco out of whatever temporary spell he'd been put under, his sneer reasserting itself. Hermione braced herself for some scathing comment about her intelligence, fashion choice, or the weather, but none came. Tilting her head slightly, Hermione looked Draco up and down. _Is he sick, or something?_

"So," Flitwick said, rubbing his hands together, "I know that this is technically a business meeting, but ours is a rather different business, is it not?"

Hermione gave a rather forced chuckle, her eyes drifting down to the menu. Seeing that the only thing she could afford was a side of mash, she blanched. She was even more surprised when the menu was whisked away from beneath her.

"Don't worry about the menu," Flitwick said when she looked back up, his smile knowing and kind. "I've selected a three-course set meal for us. The dinner will be my treat, of course – I'm the one dragging you two away from your Friday night!"

Hermione resisted the urge to snort, but heard that Draco had no such qualms; the blonde let out a very loud laugh-cough-snort, raising his eyebrow and looking across the table. "I can honestly say that my plans consisted of doing my taxes and ordering take away," he said, sill not moving his gaze from Hermione. "But I'm sure you had so many plans, Granger," he drawled, grabbing a breadstick from the center basket. "The social scene will positively _die _without you."

_I'm not going to play this game_, Hermione thought, tapping down the rage that was beginning to build inside of her. _This is going to be a civil, cordial dinner….that is, until Donnie gets here_.

"Don't worry Malfoy," she said, her face composed into a calm, benign smile. "I have the ability to record television shows, so I'm sure I can catch up with my social life tomorrow." Satisfied, Hermione saw Draco's eyebrows shoot up. "Besides," she continued, "they're replaying season two of Doctor Who right now – as much as I love that season, I _have _seen it already."

"You're a fan of science fiction?" Flitwick asked politely, delicately ripping his breadstick into miniscule pieces.

"Not really," Hermione admitted. "Just Doctor Who. I tried to get into Star Trek, but just didn't find the characters or plot nearly as engaging."

"Not even watching Kirk hit on everything that moves?" Draco asked relatively quietly.

Hermione started, realizing that the blonde was still staring at her. And that he'd just made a non-mocking, genuine comment about a science fiction TV show. "Not really," she replied, hesitant. "I much prefer watching Captain Jack do the same thing."

_…am I going insane, or did Draco just nod?_

Hermione blinked, confused. Just as she was about to open her mouth, a thousand questions dancing on the tip of her tongue, Flitwick started talking again. "Tonight I don't want to talk to Eliza and Henry," he clarified. "All I want is to talk to _you_; Draco and Hermione."

"With respect, Filius," Draco said cautiously, "I don't really see how that can help you with the song. I mean, it isn't a song about us, it's a song between Eliza and Henry."

Hermione blinked, watching the composer to see what his response would be. Nodding, Flitwick said; "True enough. However, the essence of the song – the melody, the message, the emotions – needs to be conveyed by you two in an honest and sincere manner. It will be far easier to write a song that will resonate with listeners if it resonates with the singers."

Draco nodded, still looking confused. "So, are we going to start a round of Twenty Questions, or something?" he asked, sounding snarky and condescending.

"No," Flitwick said firmly. "We're going to have a conversation – not a flurry of insults, not an attempt to undermine one another; just a conversation."

Looking pointedly at Draco, the composer pulled a small notebook out of his blazer pocket. Hermione felt a wave of unease crash against her diaphragm as she saw Draco's calm, smug expression. _He looks far too happy for someone who's been told that he needs to spend the entire evening being nice to me…_

"I'll be taking notes," Flitwick continued, pulling a small pen out of another pocket, "but don't mind that, alright?"

"I am expected to maintain a civil, normal conversation with Malfoy for three courses?" Hermione asked flatly, giving Flitwick a desperate look.

"I'll be involved in the conversation as well," he said, offering her a tiny lifeline. "Just…try to pretend you like each other, all right?"

Draco folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "I'll try if you will," he said, tilting his head towards Hermione.

Inwardly sighing, Hermione straightened her back and smiled. "Of course, Draco – I'd hate to let Filius down."

"And," Flitwick interrupted, his voice surprisingly menacing, "knowing you two I have to emphasize this – _no acting_. I don't want to see your personas, or a false image; I want to see _you_."

Hermione deflated, her false smile slipping off of her face. Nodding, Draco pulled out his cell phone and started to type on it. _Texting? During diner? Really? _Self-consciously, Hermione thought about her phone in her jacket pocket before glancing down at her watch. Donnie was due to come into the restaurant in twenty minutes. Hopefully she didn't get too distracted by the barista.

With a satisfied hum, Draco put the phone back into his pocket and pointed to the third breadstick in the basket on the table. "Are you going to eat that, or will it offend your delicate, female sensibilities to eat bread?"

Hermione frowned and snatched the breadstick, ignoring Draco's wide eyes. "I would describe myself as a carb-ovore," she said, ripping it into smaller pieces on her side plate. "So no, you may not steal my allotted bread."

"There _will _be three more courses," Draco pointed out. "It's not like you'll have to live on one piece of bread."

"But god knows what the courses will be in a place like this," Hermione said, gesturing over the banner to her right at the sprawling, opulent restaurant around them. "I might end up having to live on one single piece of bread for the entire evening."

"We're having artichokes with béarnaise sauce to start," Flitwick said, piping up momentarily before returning to his notebook.

Draco was obviously about to continue with his rant, but stopped and did a double-take of Hermione. "…you _do _know what an artichoke is, don't you?" he asked, his voice only slightly condescending.

Hermione shrugged, recognizing her ignorance of fine cuisine. "I've heard of them – there's a line about them in _Wicked_, I'm fairly certain – but haven't really seen or eaten one. Are they a vegetable?"

"A thistle, technically," Draco said flatly, his eyes wide. Shaking his head slightly, he continued. "I'd have thought that an actress of your…._social position _would have had access to all sorts of luxury."

Again, Hermione shrugged. "Not really," she said, swallowing a piece of bread. "I had a pretty modest childhood, I never really got to go to places like this or try anything crazy."

"What did your parents do?" Draco asked, fiddling with his cutlery and trying very hard to shrink his eyes to their normal size.

"They were dentists," Hermione said, looking at her now-empty side plate sadly.

"My condolences," Draco said snidely.

Hermione shot him a glare. "They weren't great-paying jobs, but they weren't bad. My parents just really liked a minimalist lifestyle."

"And…now you're used to that?" Draco asked, obviously confused.

Hermione nodded. "Yup. My dinner usually consists of either pasta or frozen waffles." She wished that she could pull out her phone to take a photo of the shocked expression on Draco's face. "What?" she said, trying not to sound overjoyed. "Am I defying your expectations a bit?"

Draco swallowed. "Just a bit."

Hermione felt a surge of anger and a familiar stirring of stubborn pride. "Did you think that I was born sucking on a silver spoon, or something?" she asked, her voice calm and questioning. "That I attended RADA and glided my way upwards?" Draco was silent, his grey-blue eyes focussed unerringly on Hermione's. "Well that's not quite how it happened," Hermione said flatly.

There was an awkward silence at the table where the two just stared at one another, the babble of the other restaurant patrons fading into the background. Draco's face was unreadable, but Hermione quashed the uneasy feeling in her stomach.

"Thought you ought to know," she said quietly, the intensity not fading from her voice. "Just in case you were making assumptions."

Graciously, Draco nodded his head in her direction before lifting his wine glass. "Thank you for correcting me," he said, and Hermione strained to hear any hint of condescension or sarcasm.

_Brain transplant, much?_

After another moment of silence, Hermione spoke again. "So," she said, her voice light and falsely cheerful, "what about your parents? Were they fans of artichokes?"

An unexpected laugh slid out from between Draco's lips, and Hermione just about fell off her chair; it wasn't his usual bark, or the strange strangled-chuckle he produced when he was laughing at someone. In sounded…normal. Real.

"I had a very privileged, restricted childhood," Draco said, taking another sip of his wine. "My grandfather was a wildly successful architect, and my father inherited all of his money. Since we were ridiculously rich, Mother never worked and Father only worked" – Draco put the word 'worked' in air quotations – "as an investor in the stock market."

"Public school?" Hermione asked, taking a sip of her water and ignoring the glass of red wine to her right. She needed her wits about her.

"Worse," Draco said, wincing and shaking his head. "Public _boarding _school."

"Ouch."

"All-boys."

"Oh you poor soul."

Draco seemed surprised for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he read Hermione's expression for any dishonesty or condescension. Finding none, his eyes widened again. "It was horrendous," he affirmed. "When I was younger, every time they let me go home, I begged my father not to send me back." Draco smiled wryly, leaving his eyes cold. "After a while I stopped trying."

Hermione could tell that his dislike for his father was genuine. From that example, she found herself thinking that the dislike was justified as well. "What about your mother?" Hermione asked, trying to avoid dwelling on what was obviously a negative subject.

"She was on my side," Draco said, his eyes flickering around the room.

_Damn it, _Hermione thought, inwardly wincing. _Obviously I need to make my questions more specific._

"But she could never go against Father's decisions," Draco said, his eyes finally resting on Hermione's. The doors over his eyes had slid back again, and Hermione imagined that she could see straight through those eyes and into Draco's mind. "She was a wonderful woman though – the only reason why I kept going home after year eight."

Hermione frantically tried to think of a way to change the subject, but the words stuck in her throat. Draco was on a roll, unshuttered, and (supposedly) not acting. _If he wants to talk, let him talk. I've already told him more than he wants to know about me, the least I can do is listen to him. _

"She's gone now, though," Draco said, his voice shockingly flat. "So I no longer correspond with my father."

"You cut yourself off?" Hermione asked, surprise obvious in her voice. "I'd have thought you'd need his support to continue an artichoke-lifestyle. I've seen the pay checks we both get, so I know how expensive fresh veggies" – she paused – "– or, thistles, was it? – can be by the end of the month."

A small flicker of a smile was Hermione's reward for her attempt at humour, and she was startled by the warm curl that appeared in her stomach when she realized that she'd made him smile. _What the bloody fuck, Granger?!_

"I can't afford them," Draco answered, the smile still present at the edges of his eyes. "I adapted to a life without artichokes."

"Poor soul," Hermione said, shaking her head. She used the motion to quickly glance down at her watch. _Thirteen minutes to Donnie._

"So," she said, trying to fill the now very awkward dead space at the table, "favourite musical?"

Draco snorted, leaning back in his chair as a waiter – _Whoah, where did he come from? _– put something green and spiky-looking in front of him. Hermione nodded her thanks as one was placed in front of her too, and she paused. _Huh, _she thought. _So that's an artichoke_.

"Really, Granger?" Draco drawled, causing Hermione to look away from the cactus-creature on her plate. "Are we really reduced to such small-talk?"

"Fine," Hermione said, trying not to sound petulant, "Would you rather we just sit in silence?"

Draco narrowed his eyes as he ripped one of the pointy leaves off of his artichoke before dipping the flat end into some sort of sauce beside his plate. "_Les Misérables_, probably," he said, his voice emotionless.

Hermione nodded, trying to mimic how Flitwick was eating his artichoke and failing miserably. With a sigh, she gave up. "Why _Les Mis_?" she asked, trying to draw out the topic.

"Why not?" Draco replied frustratingly, shrugging. "It's dramatic, emotional, well written; the book was fantastic, so I wouldn't expect anything else."

"You read the book?" Hermione asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Draco drawled, smirking.

"Abridged?"

"Don't condescend, please, Granger – it's low, even for you."

"Sorry," she mumbled, poking at her artichoke with a fork to get a waiter to stop staring at her disapprovingly.

At that point, surprisingly, Flitwick jumped in. "Have you read it, Miss Granger?" he asked, pencil poised over the page.

"Of course," she said, slightly offended. "When I was younger I devoured any book that I came across. I would've probably taught English if I hadn't gone into theatre."

Silence one again shrouded the table, Flitwick scribbling obliviously on his notepad while Draco dismantled his artichoke. Hermione just sighed and thought longingly of the box of pasta in her cupboard at home.

"And you?" Draco asked, viciously ripping off another mutant-leaf-thing.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked, confused.

Sighing, Draco rolled his eyes. "What's _your _favourite musical, Granger?" he asked, his voice falsely bright and enthusiastic. "I'm dying to know!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow, wishing desperately that Donnie would arrive sooner. "If I said _Phantom_, would you kill me?" she asked dryly.

Leaning closer to the table, Draco tilted his head. "No," he said slowly, "I wouldn't. The feud between _Phantom _and _Les Mis _patrons is just silly, in my opinion – they're both good shows, and are both still incredibly successful." Hermione found herself nodding, completely agreeing with the blonde across from her.

"But is it?"

Lost, Hermione shook her head. "Sorry?"

"_Phantom_, is it your favourite musical?" Draco emphasized, surprisingly not in an overly-annoyed or tetchy manner. Just sort-of mildly irritated.

"Erm, no," Hermione said, suppressing a flinch. "My favourite would have to be _Singing in the Rain_, probably - I've actually come to sort-of hate _Phantom _by now."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. _Why, Granger, why do you let your mouth work without your mind's consent? _she thought, frustrated.

"Weren't you playing Christine before Christmas?" he asked, pushing away his plate covered in mostly-eaten leaves.

"Yes," she replied, pausing for a second to wonder how on earth Draco knew that.

"You had to have liked the show to sign onto it," the blonde pointed out, reaching for his wine glass, "That is, unless you were _incredibly _desperate for a job."

Waving her hand back and forth, Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, no, no – I really did like it, it's just….one of my…_co-workers_ was a bit hard to deal with."

"Pushy?" Draco asked, taking a sip of his wine.

"Um, in a manner of speaking…" Hermione was floundering, and was incredibly grateful when a swarm of waiters arrived to clear their plates. Pointedly ignoring the disapproving look she was getting from the waiter who cleared her mostly-untouched artichoke, Hermione stole a glance at her watch.

_Seven minutes._

Out of the blue, Draco launched into a new topic; "You're friends with Longbottom, aren't you, Granger?" he asked, swirling the wine in his glass and staring at it thoughtfully.

"Yes," Hermione said, lifting her wine glass, "I would like to think so. Why?"

"Is he officially dating the costume designer yet?"

Nearly choking on her wine, Hermione coughed and spluttered. "Excuse me?" she asked, incredulous.

Draco sighed. "Honestly," he mumbled, "I thought females were meant to be purveyors of gossip." Hermione gave the blonde a pointed glare and Draco rolled his eyes. "Neville," he said bluntly. "Is he dating that…what's her name? Tuna?"

"Luna," Hermione corrected.

Draco smiled his false, empty smile and snapped his fingers. "That's it! Luna, Luna Lovegood. Are they officially together yet?"

"I didn't even know they were unofficially together," Hermione said honestly, somewhat disbelieving. "What led you to think they were seeing each other?"

Shrugging nonchalantly, Draco picked some lint off of his jacket sleeve. "The way they look at each other."

Hermione let out a small burst of laughter, shaking her head. "You _watch _them?" she asked, sipping her wine now that it was safe to do so again. "That's slightly stalker-ish, you realize…"

"I watch everyone," Draco said quietly, meeting Hermione's eyes directly. The shutters were gone again.

"Why?" she asked, matching his gaze and praying that he wouldn't disappear into himself again.

"For material," he said, his expression honest and his voice unsarcastic. "If you need to act out an emotion, the best thing you can do is witness it and then replicate it."

"Really?" Hermione said, surprised and impressed. "Explain."

Without even a half-hearted protest, Draco began talking about how Neville's uncertainty and devotion could be applied to Higgins midway through Act II, how Flitwick's current attitude of calm, calculated deductions could be used early in Act I, and how Hermione's –

But there he froze.

"My what?" she asked, intrigued. "What about me?"

"Nevermind," Draco grumbled. "You'd just laugh."

"Not at all," Hermione said, resisting the urge to reach across the table and grab Draco's hand. _Where the hell did that come from? _she thought, panicked. "What about me can you use?" Hermione asked, keeping her voice and her expression open.

Sighing, Draco glanced up at the ceiling before meeting Hermione's gaze. "When you sing," he started.

_Uh oh, _Hermione thought, thinking of their last discussion that had been about singing, and how that had resulted in the sabotage that was only two minutes away. _This can't go well._

"When you sing," Draco repeated, his jaw working furiously, "you _become_ Eliza."

Hermione's mind ground to a halt. _Well_, she thought, stunned, _that's unexpected._

"It's like…all her hopes, her pride, her insecurities….it just comes out of you, and it's amazing."

_This is Draco talking, right? _Hermione thought, looking the blonde up and down. The tips of his ears were flushed red, but his eyes were open and honest, the grey irises looking almost blue.

"Th-thank you," Hermione stuttered, in a state of shock.

"Please don't," Draco grimaced, leaning back in his chair. "I just realized that I was a complete prat earlier, I just – I really didn't want to admit it, and that was hard, so let's not linger on it alright?"

The words rushed out in a blur, but Hermione caught them all and held them in a little jar of nice things that she kept far away from the angry, rocky section of her brain. There was a nice, warm feeling to the words, and she could almost taste the sincerity in the air. _Draco Malfoy was just nice to me_, she thought, looking strangely at the pale, suddenly-nervous-looking blonde across from her. _He just apologized._

Then, a sudden fact floated its way to the forefront of her mind. _Oh shit_, she thought, the colour draining from her face. _Donnie._

Hermione's head snapped around to look down at the ground floor of the restaurant, and sure enough, there was Donnie weaving her way through the sea of patrons. Of course, you wouldn't immediately recognize her as Donnie through the extravagant fur coat and the sunglasses, but Hermione knew that in one of the many pockets of that coat was a jar. Inside the jar was a small colony of very unhappy fire ants, and Donnie was planning to walk up the stairs and 'accidentally' stumble, fall, and break the jar right next to the apologetic and not-quite-as-snarky-as-he-was-yesterday – definitely not snarky enough to deserve a jar of fire ants up his leg – Draco Malfoy.

Hermione tried to signal Donnie without being too obvious, waving her hand over the railing, laughing loudly at nothing, doing _anything _to attract attention to herself in a subtle way so that she could show Donnie that the plan was of. Checking quickly, Hermione saw that Draco wasn't paying attention, thankfully – he was frantically texting on his phone, looking strangely nervous and panicked.

But then – _oh, thank the lord!_ – Donnie caught Hermione's eye and looked up at her, confused by Hermione's shaking head and finger drawn repeatedly across her throat. She kept walking though, closer and closer towards the stairs.

But _THEN…_

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGD

_Shit, shit, SHIT_, Draco thought, frantically typing out another text to Goyle. _She doesn't deserve this, she really isn't __that__ bad…._

But Goyle wasn't answering. Draco had sent off the 'good to go' text before the appetizers had even arrived, so Goyle was most likely already in position and ready to execute the plan to the letter.

And, sure enough, Draco saw a strange, rather thick 'round the middle waiter come up through the staff doors, carrying a decanter of very _very _stainable red wine – enhanced with some cranberry juice, red Kool-Aid powder, and tomato sauce. Sparing a quick glance at Hermione's very _white _dress, he felt like hitting his head repeatedly against the railing. _Why, why WHY did I not listen to Theo? _he thought, panicking and desperately sending off another text. Goyle wasn't looking up, so Draco couldn't catch his attention that way.

It looked like this tentative acquaintanceship he'd just formed was on its way to becoming a complete train wreck.

Again.

But then – _thank the lord!_ – Goyle pulled his phone out of his pocket. Confused, he kept walking but looked up to where Draco was sitting. The blonde shook his head frantically, trying to be somewhat subtle in his actions so that Hermione didn't figure out what he was doing.

But _THEN…._

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

With a resounding "CRASH!" a woman wearing sunglasses and a rather extravagant fur coat ran into a strange, slightly portly waiter carrying a decanter of wine. The pair were both looking up, which confused the restaurant staff and patrons later when they asked what happened, as neither had seen the other one coming. The strange woman and odd waiter hit one another, and then hit the floor in a spectacular display of fur, glass, and an awful lot of noise.

"What the hell?" the woman shrieked in a very lower-class accent, her coat covered in icky, gloopy red stuff that bore no resemblance to wine whatsoever. "Watch where you're going, blockhead!"

"You ran into me just as much as I ran into you!" the waiter shouted, suddenly scratching his leg frantically. "What've you got in all that fur, _lice_?!"

The shouting continued as the pair was escorted through the restaurant and out into the street, where they were questioned and eventually released by the doorman who deemed them to be loony and therefore a complete waste of his time.

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

Just after the crash, however, two very relieved patrons on the upper balcony of the restaurant sagged in their seats. Hermione and Draco both noticed one another's sudden change in attitude, and turned their gaze from the mess below them to one another.

Realization swept over them, both doing double-takes to the mess on the floor with raised eyebrows.

"Excuse me," Flitwick said, watching the pair with a very confused look on his face, "would someone please tell me what's going on here?! Do you know those two?"

Hermione and Draco looked at one another, and there was a pause. Then, with a spontaneity and exuberance that had previously only been seen in events such as the Big Bang, Hermione and Draco dissolved into side-splitting, understanding, and thoroughly genuine laughter.

_A/N: Hello, darling readers! Before you start throwing tomatoes, I need to profusely apologize for this late post - life really got away from me, thanks to local natural disasters, school, and work. Plus, as you can see, this chapter is quite the monster and an awful lot happens in it._

_Here's Chapter Seven though, with a promise of Chapter Eight in a decent and reasonable amount of time. Pinky swear. :)_

_Please R&R, and thanks for sticking with me, Hermione, Draco, Eliza, and Higgins! _

_~sneakyslytherin_


End file.
